by CJ Lyons
All three men bristled immediately. Lucy kept her voice calm, non-confrontational. "To start with, which of you is going to be our media liaison? Chief Deputy, I expect that would be you?"
Dunmar puffed his chest out with self-importance.
"Great. We're definitely having some crowd control issues down the street. Maybe you could get some of your people to deal with it and escort the media to a secure location?" She eyed the obnoxious Incident Command van. She'd love to get it out of sight, but the news crews and the family had already seen it. Too late now.
"Who is conducting the search of the house and the location where Ashley was last seen?" They appeared startled at her use of the victim's name.
Cops usually tried to depersonalize victims, especially when it involved kids. But right now, this early in the case, she wanted these guys focused on Ashley—not on jurisdiction or who would look best on the ten o'clock news. "Has someone secured Ashley's room?"
"My guys cleared the house after the Plum police did an initial sweep," Lowery, the Statie, said. "No sign of her. Missus said a school bag and jacket were missing. Couldn't get much more out of her than that."
He nodded in the direction of Ashley's mother, now quiet, slumped against the rigid chest of the man she'd been screaming at earlier. Still no tears, Lucy noticed. Right, she'd get to the family in a minute. "Have you started a canvass?"
"The last place she was sighted was yesterday at school. In Monroeville," Burroughs said. "They called us in as mutual aid—they're not equipped to deal with this kind of thing."
"Sounds good. We'll need all the resources we can get. Why don't you coordinate a search of her school, canvass her teachers and as many class mates as you can track down? We'll also need a walk and talk centering on the school, see if we can nail down her movements. Can you and the Monroeville PD handle that?"
Burroughs straightened his shoulders, taking obvious umbrage at her implication. "We're good. I've already got them working on photos and flyers."
"Has anyone contacted NCMEC yet?"
They looked at each other. "Er, we were just getting to that."
"Lowery, why don't you take care of that since we'll want state-wide coordination. I guess that leaves me to deal with the family."
She frowned and darted a doubtful glance at the couple standing a few feet away from them. The men seemed more than relieved to relinquish that particular duty. Fine with her. If they were going to get anywhere with this, it was going to come from the family and what they did—or did not—know.
Even with stranger abductions, it was always about the family. The ones left behind. Waiting.
"I'll get them inside." She gave the other officers her card with her contact numbers and steeled herself to handle the grieving family. The two detectives and Dunmar closed ranks behind her, watching, judging the new kid on the block.
She didn't mind that—hell, she'd been weighing their measure ever since she arrived on scene. It was juggling the emotional napalm of the mother and father that was going to be tricky.
"Hey, LT!" A familiar voice called. At last, the cavalry had arrived.
Two very disparate men approached Lucy. Special Agent Zach Taylor was SAFE's forensic computer technician, fresh enough from his graduation from the Academy that he still dressed in Hollywood inspired G-man fashion: narrow-lapelled black suit, white shirt, dark tie, and Oakley sunglasses. His enthusiasm and frequent repetition of the phrase, "back at Quantico they told us..." made Lucy's teeth ache, but when it came to tech-stuff he knew how to get the job done.
With him was an older, bald black man. Her second in command, Isaac Walden, had the longest tenure of anyone at SAFE: almost four years, first in Atlanta, now here with the new unit in Pittsburgh. He was six years older than Lucy and no one had been able to explain to her why he hadn't moved on. By all rights he should have been promoted long ago to Supervisory Special Agent in charge of his own team. In a unit where the stress level was so high that mandatory psych evals occurred every six months, it was unheard of for an agent to remain as long as Walden.
Taylor she had pegged as the class clown—she'd already had to quash some of his rambunctious limit-testing. No problem for a mother who'd survived one toddler.
Walden, she wasn't as certain about. He could be a serious head-case, burnt out, biding his time until mandatory retirement. She hoped not, but for now she was withholding judgment.
"Thanks for inviting us to the party," Taylor said as he reached her side. "Where do you want us?"
"You take the girl's room and any electronics she may have access to. Walden, let's divide and conquer the folks." She glanced beyond them to the ever-present fourth estate whose ranks were swollen now from two news trucks to three. "Inside."
Taylor bounded into the house like a lost puppy scenting dinner. Walden remained at her side, letting her take the lead.
"Hear you found my boys," Walden said as they approached the distraught mother and the stone-faced father.
"Safe and sound. It was a team effort—hope you don't mind, I let the Staties take the credit."
He merely shrugged. Angry or agreeing with her, she wasn't certain. She didn't have time to think about it.
"Mr. and Mrs. Yeager? I'm Special Agent Guardino from the FBI. Could we talk inside?" Both were silent. Mrs. Yeager had her eyes squeezed shut and fists raised as she leaned against the man. Lucy pried her away, the woman almost collapsed in her arms, and led her to the house.
"My baby, where's my baby?" the mother sobbed.
Chapter 6
Saturday 10:28 am
Lucy settled Melissa Yeager into a kitchen chair. Without the red blotches covering her cheeks and the runny nose, she would have been a beautiful woman. She had long blonde hair, pulled back into a pony tail that emphasized high, cavernous cheekbones, perfect teeth, a wide mouth, and a slender patrician neck.
"Would it be all right if I made tea?" Lucy asked. A panacea for grieving mothers.
"The cupboard beside the oven," the mother stirred herself to answer. "What's your name again?"
She seemed calmer, more focused now that it was just the two of them. Had the drama queen act been a performance put on for the men outside? For the husband—rather, ex-husband? The press? Or the cops?
Maybe all of the above. In Lucy's experience, shock and fear brought out the worst in people—including the need some people had to center the drama on themselves rather than the true victims. She busied herself microwaving two cups of herbal tea while examining the kitchen for clues to its occupants.
Even though Lucy and her family had moved here only three months ago, still had boxes to unpack, their kitchen had already become the center of their universe. A large calendar filled with everyone's schedule hung on the wall, Megan's soccer cleats and shin pads lay on the floor beside the back door sharing space with Lucy's running shoes, Nick's bike helmet hung on the door knob, lopsided pottery coffee mugs proclaiming "greatest Mom in the world" and "world's best Dad" were displayed with pride on the windowsill above the sink along with a plaster cast of Megan's pre-school handprint.
Here, in the Yeager kitchen, there existed none of that detritus of everyday life.
Instead, it was cold, sterile. All chrome and black, relieved only by white semi-gloss trim and sandstone tile on the floors. No photos except a framed black and white print of the Eiffel tower. There was a desk, but instead of overflowing with bills and coupons and school notices like Lucy's, it contained only a memo pad—blank—a black enameled pen in a holder, and the phone.
"Were there any messages?" Lucy asked as she delivered the tea to the lacquered black pub-height table perfectly aligned in the center of the room. Two chairs only.
Melissa shook her head. A few wisps had escaped her ponytail holder and were plastered against her cheeks. "The police took the answering machine, but there was nothing on it. If anyone wants me, they call my cell."
The tea's cinnamon laden aroma filled the room, the only sign of life except for the
two women. A plant would help, Lucy thought. Even a dead plant—a sign that someone human, fallible, lived here.
"We'll need the cell phone. And access to your computer, Palm Pilot, anything like that."
"That's what the State police said. They took everything. Have someone monitoring the phones." She stared down into her mug. "I hate him for this. This is all his fault."
"Who?"
"Him. Gerald. Everything was fine until he decided we weren't good enough anymore, until he left."
"How long ago was that?"
"Ten months. Bastard packed his bags and walked out and that was that."
"That must have been tough on Ashley. How'd she take it?"
Melissa frowned as if she'd forgotten about her daughter. "She was fine until this summer. This summer it was like she was having her own mid-life crisis."
"When did you first notice something was wrong?"
"Just before school ended. I took her shopping for a bathing suit—God, that was a fiasco." She looked past Lucy, rolling her eyes and making a clicking sound with her tongue that reminded Lucy of Megan and her twelve-year-old friends.
"Ashley developed early. She's had her period for two years now and she's already got twice the figure I do. Not to mention all that baby fat." Melissa glanced down at her own perfect size two and straightened her posture, pulling her robe around her, re-knotting the ties with elegant grace. "Good thing she never wanted to follow in my footsteps, she never would have made it."
"Your footsteps?"
"I was a model. Put Gerald through veterinarian school, earned enough to buy this," she gestured to the house, "and to start my own agency after we moved here. I know, Pittsburgh is nothing compared to New York, but Gerald had a once in a lifetime job offer from the Pittsburgh Zoo."
"He works at the Zoo?"
"He's in charge of their herpetology department. Reptiles," she added when Lucy gave her a questioning look. "He was responsible for the new snake house. It won some kind of big prize. Way he acted you'd think it was the Oscar or something."
Great. More snakes. Lucy changed the subject. "You had no idea Ashley was missing until the phone call?"
Melissa's frown barely made a dent in her forehead. Botox? Or did nothing penetrate her polished facade?
"I fell asleep reading. She told me she'd be home by midnight, it's not a school night, so—" She shrugged one shoulder. "The phone woke me. At first there was silence, just a man breathing. I almost hung up. But then he said he had Ashley and I ran to her room and her bed hadn't been slept in." Melissa's face was still blank, but her words sped up, in danger of derailing.
"He used Ashley's name?"
"No. No, he just said, 'we have what you want'—but Ashley was gone. He had to be talking about her. He hung up before I could say anything."
"No instructions, no demands for money?"
"Nothing. Just laughed and hung up. I searched the house. Ashley was gone. I called the Martins—she was supposed to be babysitting for them, put it on the calendar a week ago. But they said they'd never asked her." She swiveled in her chair, staring at the backdoor as if she expected Ashley to walk in. "Someone took my baby. Why? Why would anyone do that to me?"
Still no tears.
Melissa turned back to Lucy as if she expected Lucy to have the answers she needed.
Lucy had no answers. Just more questions—things weren't adding up. "Maybe you can show me Ashley's room and tell me more about her. I'd like to get to know her better."
Melissa tugged her belt even tighter and stood. "Not much to tell. She's like any kid. Goes to school, comes home, goes to her room, and goes to bed. A little spacey at times, but you know how girls her age are."
Lucy followed her from the kitchen to the stairs leading to the second floor. Melissa's description didn't sound like any "normal" fourteen-year-old girl she knew. It sounded like a kid headed for trouble. With parents too caught up in their own concerns to care.
Ashley's room confirmed her suspicions. It was a dull room, painted eggshell white with a beige rug. No individuality expressed here. Instead, there were coordinating sheets, comforter, pillow shams and drapes.
The only artwork was a framed reproduction of Monet's water lilies that matched the bedspread. No stuffed animals. No Cosmos poking out from under the mattress, no earrings and underwear littering the dresser top. No rock stars taped to the wall, wearing lipstick kisses.
Sterile, like a hotel room. A room where no one was ever coming home.
"Any luck?" Lucy asked Taylor who was packaging Ashley's computer. He'd sealed the tower in a plastic evidence bag, labeled it, and was photographing it from all angles to document the chain of custody.
"I won't know until I get it back to the lab," he said. "But there was something funky."
"What?"
"When I got here the computer was on—but the monitor was blank except for a prompt." "You lost me."
"It's the kind of screen you'd see if the hard drive has been erased."
"How long would that take, a computer this size?"
He shrugged. "Depends on how thorough you were. Reformatting the hard drive, minutes. Scrubbing it clean, several hours."
Anticipation tickled Lucy's nerve endings, an itch she couldn't scratch.
This wasn't a typical teenage angst runaway—this was someone who had meticulously covered her tracks. Lucy glanced around the room again. It hadn't just been stripped of personality, it had been stripped of anything that could help her find Ashley.
And it hadn't happened overnight.
"Did Ashley erase the hard drive herself?" Because Melissa Yeager stood in the doorway, listening, Lucy didn't add the question foremost in her mind: or had someone else deleted the information for Ashley?
"I won't know until I analyze it."
"How long?"
"Dunno." Taylor exhaled the word, his initial optimism evaporating faster than helium from a balloon. It was clear the admission cost him. "It depends if I can extract anything—if there's anything left to extract."
"What about her cell and other electronics?"
"Her cell phone is gone but I'm working with the provider to get a list of calls and text messages. If anyone turns it on, we'll have GPS tracking. The Staties have got mom's cell and laptop. Dad gave us consent for his, but I'm working on search warrants anyway."
"Focus on Ashley's. Did she have anything else?" Lucy asked Melissa Yeager. The mom hovered still outside the room as if some invisible barrier blocked her entrance. "An electronic diary, a PDA, a pager?"
Melissa's shook her head. "No, just the damn phone. Like it was surgically implanted. Texted on it day and night. Sometimes I'd come in to check on her at night and she'd be typing away."
Exactly why Lucy refused to give Megan texting privileges to anyone but her and Nick. Technology was great until predators learned how to manipulate it for their own purposes.
That familiar itch curled her fingers again. Was that what she was dealing with here? A predator? A man like Pastor Walter, only slicker, sleeker….able to convince his prey to cover her tracks. Or smart enough to cover them for her.
She returned to stand in the doorway with the mom, mirroring her anxious posture. "Do you have anyone to stay with you? Someone you'd feel safe with?"
Melissa shook her head.
"So, you're not seeing anyone?" Lucy tried again.
"No. Not—" Melissa broke off, stared at Lucy. "What are you asking?"
Lucy stared back, unabashed. "I need to know about the people in Ashley's life. Where does your boyfriend live?"
Melissa made an exacerbated noise without parting her lips. "He's not—I don't even know what you'd call him. An old friend. We had a thing, once, ages ago. It was only natural, after Gerald betrayed me—"
"What's his name?" Lucy asked.
"Jon. Jon Tardiff. The photographer. He lives in Manhattan."
"Did Ashley know Jon?" A nod from Melissa. But she also broke eye contact, looked down at the
floor, her fingers picking at the knot on her robe. "Did she like him?"
Melissa gave a shrug and slouched—totally out of character for the perfect-postured fashion model image she'd portrayed earlier. "No. Ashley didn't like Jon. He came to visit when she was at Gerald's, or we'd see each other when I was in the city."
Lucy stood aside as Taylor gathered up Ashley's computer and his equipment and left. There was more going on here, something she couldn't quantify. "Why didn't Ashley like Jon Tardiff?"
Gerald Yeager and Isaac Walden joined them. Gerald stiffened at the mention of Tardiff but his expression remained as blank as ever. "Ashley hated him," he spat the words. "The pervert used to take naked pictures of her when she was young."
"He's an artist," Melissa protested. "I was naked in them as well, that never bothered you."
"Tardiff has a history of molesting young girls?"
"No. Of course not." Melissa stood up straight again, challenging her ex.
"Not that I could ever prove," Gerald said.
Isaac and Lucy exchanged a glance. Isaac jotted a few words in his notebook and Lucy knew he'd run down the truth.
If it was true, if Tardiff had a thing for girls, then Melissa was living every mother's worst nightmare. The thing you never, ever thought about—for fear that if you did, even for a second, you might be inviting the monster into your home.
Maybe that's what Melissa was hiding. She'd let the monster waltz right in and steal her only child.
"What's missing?" Lucy asked the parents, deciding to table further discussion of Tardiff until she had more facts. "What could Ashley have taken with her?"
Melissa's eyes darted around the room. Lucy followed her glance and spotted something shiny on one wall. A torn triangle of transparent tape. "Did something used to hang here?"
Melissa nodded, one hand covering her mouth as if to keep from screaming.
Gerald answered for her. "What happened to her drawings? Ashley was a fantastic artist, loved to sketch and paint." He pushed past Melissa and stalked around the room. "Where are they?"
She kept shaking her head, small little shakes, watching her made Lucy dizzy. "I don't know." The words sounded frayed, torn. "After she got back from your place that one time, the next day they were all gone. I thought she had grown tired of them, threw them out."