by S. J. Harper
CHAPTER 2
Day One: Monday, September 2
The office is quiet as we make our way from the elevator through the maze of cubicles that makes up the FBI San Diego field office. Thoughts of Demeter fade as Zack and I exchange nervous looks. In spite of the holiday, half a dozen agents are already at work, either with a phone receiver to an ear or at a computer, fingers flying over the keyboards. What’s missing is the banter that usually accompanies agents at work like this. The muted atmosphere is unsettling.
Zack tilts his head toward the far wall. “Something is very wrong.”
Deputy Director Johnson’s office, which is walled with floor-to-ceiling windows, is the middle of three that look onto the general work area. The door is closed, but the blinds that are usually drawn are open, giving Johnson a clear view of the agents in the bullpen and us a clear view of him. Our normally unflappable bulldog of a boss is pacing, cell phone to his ear. The second he sees us, he disconnects and stiffly motions us inside.
“And it’s personal,” Zack mutters under his breath.
“Personal?” My question goes unanswered.
Zack holds the door open, allowing me to pass through first.
Normally I would attribute the gallant door-opening gesture to his old-world Southern charm. But when I see the look on Johnson’s face, I realize it might be more self-preservation than good manners that prompted Zack’s gentlemanly behavior. Johnson’s steely eyed glare skewers me.
“Monroe, is your cell phone broken?” He moves to his desk and drops heavily into his chair before looking up at me expectantly, his face a rigid mask of irritation. “Well?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you lose it, maybe, or leave it at a friend’s?”
“No. Sir.”
“Then why the fuck haven’t you checked your messages?”
I do a mental shuffle, trying to come up with an excuse when I know I have none. “Sorry, sir,” I say at last. “The truth is, the ringer was muted and I didn’t realize it.”
Zack steps to my side. “It is a holiday, sir.”
“When I want your opinion, Armstrong, I’ll damn well ask for it!”
Johnson’s outburst silences anything else Zack might have contemplated saying in my defense. I throw him a sideways glance. He’s staring straight ahead, the picture of composure, the ultimate professional, like a good soldier patiently awaiting his next order. Only the telltale tic in his jaw provides an indication of his level of annoyance.
Jimmy called us in to tell us something. Either he doesn’t know how to start, or he just plain doesn’t want to. Zack suspects it’s personal. So, maybe it’s a bit of both.
The testosterone standoff is getting us nowhere. I decide to change tactics. “For the record, I’m sorry I didn’t answer when you called.” Risking another angry outburst, I approach, asking softly, “What’s going on, Jimmy?”
For a moment he says nothing. Then his shoulders suddenly slump. He passes a hand over his face, releases a breath, and slouches back in his chair. “Sorry, Monroe, Armstrong. I had a rough night and my morning hasn’t been much better.” He motions to the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Zack takes the one to the right, I the one to the left. Johnson begins by sorting through some papers on the desk. After a moment he pulls two from the pile and hands them to me first.
“The girl on the left is Hannah Clemons. The girl on the right, Sylvia Roberts. Both sixteen.”
I glance at the pictures. They look like school photos, the kind of head shot you’d find in a typical yearbook. Both girls are blond and blue-eyed. They are wearing identical white blouses, Peter Pan collars lying neatly on top of navy blue cardigans. Their smiles radiate the confidence that comes with being young and pretty. I hand the pictures to Zack as Johnson hands another to me.
“This is Julie Simmons. Eighteen.”
Another blonde. Same uniform. She’s as pretty as the other two, but with a shadow of something—distrust, disillusionment—that makes her smile less open, more cautious, guarded.
Zack takes the third picture from my outstretched hand. Johnson allows him a moment to scan it before speaking.
“All three are missing. No one seems to have seen Hannah Clemons since school got out on Friday. The Roberts girl has been missing since Saturday. Julie Simmons has been missing a little over twelve hours.”
“Three girls missing in three days from the same school. Which one?” I ask.
“Point Loma Academy. It’s a private school. The locals are handing the case to us because with three girls now gone, they are thinking serial kidnapper, maybe serial killer, and they have no leads. They’ve kept the cases quiet, hoping to avoid hysteria. Being a long weekend, it’s been fairly easy to do. The first two girls were friends, so they weren’t entirely sure of foul play. But now that a third girl is missing, they are looking at the case differently. The pressure is on to go public. Someone may be targeting the school, and some high-profile parents have kids who go the Academy.”
“Any ransom demands made?” Zack asks.
Johnson shakes his head. “No. None of the kids are from families who could afford to pay much even if a ransom demand was made.”
“But they could afford private school?” I ask. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the Academy was pretty pricey.”
“You’re not wrong,” says Johnson. “All three of these girls were scholarship recipients.”
Zack pulls his notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Well, we’ve got another connection, then. Could this be a prank of some kind? A bunch of rich kids ganging up on those who are less privileged?”
Johnson passes Zack another sheet of paper. “According to Principal Robinson’s statement, the identities of the scholarship recipients are kept in strict confidence. We’ve been asked to keep it that way.”
“I’m surprised.” Zack’s tone is sharply critical. “I’d think letting the parents who put money in his pocket know it’s been only scholarship students targeted would soothe some minds.”
I shake my head at Zack’s sarcasm. “Are there any other scholarship recipients?” I ask.
Johnson glances down at his phone. “One other. My niece, Rain. Julie Simmons is a friend of hers. A very good friend. She called me when she heard that Julie was missing.”
Zack and I exchange glances. I didn’t know whether to attribute it to his keen sense of hearing or instinct, but he was right. It is personal for Johnson.
“So you made a call to the local police to offer assistance,” Zack interjects.
Johnson nods. “We would have ended up with the case anyway.”
“Undoubtedly,” I agree. “Your niece?”
“Is safe at home waiting by the phone for news from me. Rain doesn’t know about the other two girls, or about the scholarship connection.”
“Which could be more coincidence than connection,” I add.
“Until we’re sure, I’ve got a friend watching my niece’s home. I want you two to start working the case immediately. Before any other girls go missing.” He sweeps a hand in the direction of the outer office. “I secured the necessary warrants. Agents Billings, Garcia, and Garner are gathering the background information you’ll need on the girls and their families. The others are consolidating information we have from the local police. They’ll have reports for you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I suggest you make first contact with Julie’s parents.”
He slides a piece of paper across the desk. “The address. They’re expecting you.”
Zack holds up his hands. “Shouldn’t we wait until we have the police reports, at least? We’re going in cold.”
Johnson looks up as if surprised both by Zack’s question and the fact that we’re still in his office. “Exactly right. I want you to look at this case from a fresh perspective. As if you are the first on the scene.” A pause. He looks down at his desk and then up again. He picks up the paper he’d placed on the corner of the de
sk and shakes it. “Did I not make myself clear?”
“Crystal.” I grab it from his hand, snatch up the three photographs, then give Zack a nudge. We’ve been given our marching orders. We’ll have time to study the evidence and ask questions later. Right now Johnson needs some space.
Zack waits until we’ve exited the elevator and are heading across the parking lot before speaking. “What do you think?”
“I think Johnson’s afraid for his niece.”
“Ever met her?”
“No,” I reply absently, looking for the Simmonses’ address as we go.
Since I still have my car keys, I steer Zack toward the end of the first row. I’ve found the address. I recognize the street. “Point Loma Academy isn’t far from the Simmonses’. If I’m not mistaken, the school’s only a five-minute walk or so from this address.”
“Maybe we can swing by on the way, check it out. What else do you know about the Academy?”
“Not much, really. I attended a fund-raiser there a year or two ago.” What I don’t add is that my date was an agent from a different division whose kid attended the school. Unfortunately, his ex-wife decided to check herself out of rehab and show up for the fund-raiser, too. Unexpectedly, and very drunk. Not a pleasant experience. For me, or the agent who not too long after accepted a transfer and moved to the East Coast with his daughter.
I’ve already made my way to the driver’s side, leaving Zack no choice but to ride shotgun. I can hear him complaining under his breath. “Sure. Why don’t you drive?”
I smile and give him just enough time to get settled in the passenger seat before shifting into gear and pulling out of the lot.
The FBI building is located right on the I-15S interstate, which is what I head for. It’s not even midmorning yet and it’s hot enough in the SUV to crank up the air-conditioning. Zack hasn’t said another word. His jaw is tight, his shoulders bunched. I have to wonder whether it’s the job that’s got him in this mood or something else. Disappointment that he’s not spending the day with Sarah? Being the professional that I am, I push that notion aside and ask, “How do you want to handle the interview?”
He stares straight ahead. “You heard Johnson. We’ll handle it like we’re the first on the scene. We should be prepared to take some flak for making them repeat what they’ve already told the first officers, but if they’re concerned about their daughter, they’ll cooperate.”
“If they’re concerned? Since when did you become Glass-Half-Empty Guy?”
I momentarily cast aside concern about his uncharacteristic moodiness and concentrate on the drive.
My memory was correct. We take the Nimitz Boulevard exit to get to Ocean Beach. On the way to the Simmonses’ apartment, we go right past the school on West Point Loma that all three missing girls attend. I pull over and we take a look.
Point Loma Academy is a sprawling two-story stucco building set back from the road, surrounded by a well-manicured lawn and ensconced behind a high stone wall. A wrought-iron gate opens to a circular drive that leads from the street to the building entrance. A digital sign at the foot of the drive flashes upcoming events and boasts of recent sports victories. No students are around because of the Labor Day holiday. No cars in the adjacent parking lot. The entire campus looks deserted. High-end surveillance cameras are evident not only at the gate and main entrance, but in other key areas as far as my eyes can see, a sad testament to the fact that security is not only necessary but mandatory on school campuses nowadays.
Zack comments first. “You sure this is a high school? Looks more like Fort Knox.”
“High-profile students, remember?” I point toward one of the cameras. “Anyone targeting students here probably spent time on or around campus, don’t you think?”
“I’ll call Garner. We need to get someone assigned to reviewing recent footage.”
I nod.
Zack makes the call.
I pull out and after five minutes and a couple more right turns, we’ve arrived at the address printed in Johnson’s neat flowing script.
Zack glances from the paper to the building and shoots me an inquisitive look. “This is it?”
I understand his confusion. The building we’re looking at is an apartment, two stories of chipping plaster fronted by a lawn in a losing battle against a vicious army of weeds. The parking lot is marked by deeply pitted asphalt and broken berms. A battered car by the entrance is balanced on four concrete blocks, its wheels gone.
“One look at this place and anyone would be able to figure out the Simmons girl is on a scholarship,” Zack says. I nod my agreement.
We trudge across the lawn to a gate set into a chain-link fence. The hinges squeal as we push it open and make our way to a row of mailboxes against a far wall. The Simmonses’ mailbox is marked 2B in red Magic Marker.
The stairway to the second floor is a series of concrete steps, the banister an afterthought of rough, unpainted wood probably attached to avoid a code violation.
As soon as I place my hand on it, I wish I hadn’t.
“Damn it!”
A sizable splinter is lodged in my index finger.
Zack reaches out. “Let me see.”
I place my hand, palm up, in his. He’s unimpressed. With barely a glance, he plucks out the sliver and lets it fall to the ground. “Good as new. Let’s go.”
“It’s bleeding. Not everyone has super-duper speedy-quick healing powers, you know,” I remind him. Demeter didn’t want to make it easy for me. I’ll heal from anything, but I do it the old-fashioned way, like a human, with time and pain.
“I could lick it,” he offers.
His tone doesn’t possess even the slightest hint of innuendo. A Were’s saliva contains properties that ward off infection and hasten healing. Nonetheless, suddenly I’m not thinking about my hand. I’m thinking of a night last spring. Of a warm fire and cool sheets. Of a soft touch and a hard body. Of the feel of Zack’s tongue and mouth.
I snatch my hand back and start once again up the stairs. “You’re right, I’m fine.”
I don’t make it far. “Emma?”
I square my shoulders and turn around. My mind races as I struggle to maintain a neutral expression and at the same time formulate a plausible explanation for the arousal that Zack’s heightened senses no doubt detected before I did.
“I’m sorry if that sounded out of line. It wasn’t . . .”
“Of course not!”
“We’re good?”
“Totally!” I nod as if nothing happened. As if I don’t know that he knows. Then we head up to 2B.
Zack raps on the front door with his knuckles. We stand back a few feet so anyone looking out the peephole can see us clearly. I’m prepared to hold up my credentials and explain who we are, but before I have my badge out, the door swings wide-open to reveal a girl of about five. She smiles up at us with a gap-toothed grin.
“Goldie said not to bug her. Not for nothing,” she announces. “So you better go away.” Her small frame is swallowed up by a pink chenille robe at least five times too big for her.
“Who’s Goldie?” Zack asks.
“Not supposed to talk to strangers,” she replies, taking a step back.
Zack produces his badge. “We’re . . . like policemen.”
“Like policemen? Where’s your uniform?”
In an effort to save Zack from being bested by the five-year-old, I bend down low so my face is almost even with hers and ask the question he should have asked. “Are your parents here?”
“Nope,” she replies. “Goldie’s watching me.”
“Only not,” Zack mutters.
“We’d really like to talk to them about your sister. How much longer do you think Goldie’s going to be?” I ask.
Her face scrunches up in concentration. “She went in to take her medicine one Dora and three SpongeBobs ago.” One glance back at the television and we’ve lost her. “I like this one,” she says, as she climbs back onto the sofa. “Have you see
n it?”
“Sounds like an invitation to me. After you, Agent Monroe.”
Just as Zack steps over the threshold, a door off the living room opens. “Gracie?” a female voice rasps. “Who are you talking to?”
The woman, presumably Goldie, is tall, drug-addict scrawny with a sallow, shrunken face and hair the color and texture of straw. She’s barefoot, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Despite the heat, a worn cardigan is pulled tightly across her chest. She glares at the child. “What have I told you about answering the door?”
Gracie shrinks back.
Zack and I produce our badges and quickly dispense with introductions. Instantaneously, Goldie’s manner shifts. Her tone softens. “Yes. What can I do for you?”
Zack steps forward. I can almost see his nose twitch as his werewolf senses go on alert. If she’s holding drugs in the apartment, he’ll know. He narrows his eyes at the woman. “You are . . . ?”
“The babysitter,” she replies, omitting her name. We let it go, for now.
Gracie has moved so that she is standing by my side. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Simmons?” I ask, placing a gentle hand on top of the little girl’s head.
“Out.”
“When will they be back?”
The woman looks away, watching Zack as he surveys the apartment. His eyes land on the room she just left. When he starts toward it, Goldie yelps, “You can’t go in there. Actually, you shouldn’t even be in here. This is private property. And . . . and you have to have a warrant. And you don’t.”
“Exigent circumstances,” Zack snaps back. “You have pinpoint pupils and a very bad habit. We have a child here who could be in danger.”
“Please!” she pleads. “Gracie’s fine. Aren’t you, Gracie?” The woman worries at the hem of her secondhand-store sweater, twisting the fabric until it shreds and comes apart in her hands. She barely notices. Her attention is on Zack. She lowers her voice. “Look, I’m trying to stay clean. Honest. I can’t afford to get busted.”
Voices drift into the apartment from the parking lot below.