The Last Good Girl

by Allison Leotta

  “True. Okay. Is there a federal prosecutor around here you’d recommend? Someone who knows Michigan but doesn’t have ties to the Highsmith family? Someone we can trust.”

  “Jack. I see what you’re doing.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “You’ll run the investigation into her disappearance with a couple good FBI agents. You’ll report to me and coordinate with the task force.”

  “Got it.” Anna transitioned into full work mode. “Is there any criminal history on either the boy or the girl?”

  “Nothing as adults. But they’re both young—she’s eighteen and he’s twenty-one. Anything they did as juveniles, any campus disciplinary charges, wouldn’t show up in NCIC.”

  “Has a grand jury been convened?”

  “Here in Detroit. I introduced the case to them, and we have full subpoena power.”

  “To investigate a federal hate crime?”

  He paused just a second before saying, “Yes.”

  Right. Jack didn’t need her to advise him on the federal hook. Anna didn’t care. If she could help this girl, she had to.

  “What’s the case number?” she asked.

  She found a notebook and jotted down the information. Names, dates, DOBs, addresses. Still on the line with Jack, she jogged up the stairs to change into work clothes and apologize to Cooper for postponing their date.

  “Anna, one more thing,” Jack said. “This is a sensitive case. Emily’s father is the president of Tower University. Dylan belongs to Beta Psi, a college fraternity in the Skull-and-Bones tradition. Four U.S. presidents were alumni, along with countless senators and CEOs. People are already making calls. These are the big boys. Handle them with care, and watch your back.”

  “Got it.”

  She’d prosecuted congressmen, street gangs, serial rapists. She could handle a bunch of frat boys.

  3

  By the time Anna changed into a black pantsuit, FBI Agent Samantha Randazzo had arrived at Cooper’s house. As Anna jogged down the steps, Cooper was letting the agent into the foyer. Sam’s eyes scanned the house in wonder. It was an old lumber baron’s mansion, rehabbed by Cooper till it shone with its former glory.

  “Sam!” Anna rushed down the steps and hugged her friend. “You’re still in town.”

  “It’s gonna take some time to wrap up the Upperthwaite investigation,” Sam said, hugging her back. “Glad to get the old team back together. What is this place?”

  “Detroit’s best hope,” Anna said. “FBI Agent Samantha Randazzo, meet Cooper Bolden, my . . . friend.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Samantha sized up Cooper with the same sharp eye she’d focused on his house. Cooper gave the women two portable mugs filled with steaming coffee.

  “You know the way to an agent’s heart,” Sam said.

  Anna gave Cooper a chaste kiss, conscious that she was doing it in front of Sam, who had been invited, then uninvited, to her wedding with Jack.

  “Good luck,” Cooper said. He’d been calm and understanding when she told him that Jack asked her to work this case. Of course you have to help, he’d said. He hadn’t questioned the wisdom of working with the man she’d tried so hard to get over.

  A knock at the front door interrupted their good-bye. On the front stoop was a big man whose powerful arms were covered in tattoos. His nose had been broken, more than once, and a scar crossed his chin. He wore a leather motorcycle jacket and held up a tiny pink tutu. “Won’t this look adorable on Leigh?”

  “Hi, Grady,” Anna said. “Jody’s in the living room.”

  “Thanks.”

  Grady kissed Anna’s cheek, shook Cooper’s hand, and walked through the house. Anna was glad to see Leigh’s father here. Jody deserved a good time on a Saturday night—and the baby deserved a chance to get to know her daddy. Grady was a bartender whose one-night stand with Jody had led to Leigh. He’d only recently learned that he was the father. When Jody was pregnant, facing years in jail, she desperately wanted her baby to go to Anna, and Anna only. Jody hadn’t told Grady about her pregnancy. He learned when he saw her sitting in the courtroom cradling a huge belly. The new parents were still getting to know each other—at a much slower pace than they’d started.

  Cooper took Anna’s coat from the rack and held it up. She slipped her arms into it, thanked him again for understanding, then stepped out with Sam into the chill of the night.

  A black Durango with federal government plates was parked on the driveway. Anna climbed into the passenger seat, while Sam got behind the wheel. Although Anna was sorry to bail on Cooper, she welcomed the sense of getting back in the saddle, the opportunity to make a difference. There was nothing she liked more than heading out with a good agent and trying to set the world right.

  “What’ve we got so far?” she asked.

  Sam steered the big truck onto the street and pointed to an iPad on the console. “Two surveillance videos. Why is your boyfriend farming in the middle of Detroit?”

  Cooper’s was the only house still standing on his street; the rest had fallen or been burned to the ground. A few blocks away towered an abandoned skyscraper, its dark windows like a thousand blind eyes.

  “He’s trying to save the city.” Anna flipped open the iPad cover. “Finding a way to make it economically viable. All while providing fresh food for the locals.”

  “He’s not a practical one. But he’s cute.”

  “I know. He’s not really my boyfriend either. He’s . . . it’s complicated.”

  Anna tapped the play button. The first video was the one she’d seen on the news, Emily breaking free of Dylan and walking away. The time stamp started at 12:02 A.M. The second, stamped 12:03, showed Emily walking about a block farther, still followed by Dylan, who was breaking into a run. Her shimmery scarf trailed behind her like a cape.

  “The first was taken by a video camera mounted outside a bar called Lucky’s,” Sam said. “Multiple sources put her there immediately before this interaction with Dylan. The second is from the Bank of America about a block away.”

  “After that?”

  “Nothing. After the bank, there’s a construction site nicknamed ‘the Pit,’ and then the block becomes residential. There’s no video on the street after the bank. We’ve pulled all the video in a ten-block radius, but there’s nothing else. Neither Emily nor Dylan appear again.”

  Anna looked at the clock on the dashboard: it was 9:55 P.M. on Saturday; the girl had last been seen at midnight the night before. Twenty-two hours for her roommate to discover her missing, to report it, for local police to decide it was actually an issue, then to pull the video and see the interaction between her and Dylan. Twenty-two hours for DOJ to realize they should step in. Twenty-two hours in which anything could have happened. The young woman could be lying in a frozen ditch, succumbing to hypothermia. Maybe she had broken bones or a concussion. Maybe she was tied up in a closet—Anna had a case like that once. Maybe she was wrapped in trash bags in a dumpster—Anna had a case like that once too. She wasn’t sure she could stand that again. Her stomach was tight with urgency.

  “Has anyone spoken to the boy? Dylan?” Anna asked.

  “Not yet. The press hasn’t gotten word that it’s him either. He may not even know that he’s been named.”

  Sam pulled onto the Lodge freeway as Anna pulled up Facebook. More and more, social media allowed her an intimate glimpse at the lives of the people she was investigating: instant, free, and without a subpoena.

  Anna swiped through Emily Shapiro’s Facebook pictures. Emily was a pretty eighteen-year-old with gray eyes and long dark hair. She had a pointy chin that gave her an elflike charm. Her interests were listed as theater, music, friends, and cooking. There were pictures of her walking dozens of different dogs on campus, and posts where she urged people to adopt them. No pictures with her family.

  Dylan’s privacy settings only allowed her to see his profile pictu
re. She’d have to subpoena the rest. Dylan was a good-looking young man with brown hair and an all-American grin. There was nothing about his photo that said he was dangerous. But you couldn’t tell much from pictures. The nicest people might look like trolls on camera, while the most photogenic smiles could mask horrific secret lives.

  “Let’s go right to the boy’s house,” Anna said.

  “Sure.”

  “What kind of search team is assembled so far?”

  “Campus police are searching campus. Local police are searching off campus. I’ve got an FBI tech working on finding her phone and setting up an alert on her ATM and credit cards. We’ve asked farmers in the surrounding area to search their land.”

  “Good,” Anna said, though the idea of finding the girl in a cornfield was chilling.

  They passed out of Detroit and the asphalt got smoother. In the suburb of Southfield, golden skyscrapers dominated the skyline. Detroit was sometimes described as a doughnut; the city itself was an economic hole, while the surrounding suburbs were full of wealth and infrastructure.

  They passed out of the suburbs, drove through a stretch of farmland, and then entered the town of Tower Hills. It was a self-contained college town and one of the most cosmopolitan places in Michigan. The campus was treed and grassy, dotted with historic stone buildings and jewels of modern architecture. The surrounding streets were lined with funky shops and coffeehouses. A five-story clock tower stood on the northern end of campus; it was on half the postcards of the college.

  Sam pulled onto a wide U-shaped street across from the campus. The outer side of the street was lined with stately Georgian mansions, identically constructed of red brick, black shutters, and white columns. Only the Greek letters on their porticoes were different.

  “Fraternity row,” Anna said. She’d come here with friends a few times herself, for road trips in her college days. The fraternity facades were lit from below, which would’ve made them look important and formal, except that they were swarmed with college kids stumbling drunkenly around, whooping and laughing. Although the Tower student body was less than 20 percent Greek, fraternity row was the place to party. It was Saturday night, almost eleven P.M. Things were just getting started.

  Sam pulled up to the curb in front of a house with the words BETA PSI in black block letters across the white portico. Despite the cold weather, a long line of students snaked from the front door, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk. A doorman sat at a table on the front porch, screening the potential partiers before letting them in.

  Anna and Sam got out of the car and strode up the walk, past the line of students, to the front door. A few kids yelled at them for cutting the line. Music pounded inside the house.

  The doorman was a young man wearing a Beta Psi T-shirt. On his table was a list of names under the words HIGHLIGHTER PARTY.

  “Hey,” the kid said. “Do you have an invitation?”

  “Not exactly,” Sam said.

  “Turn around,” the doorman said. “So I can see your ass. If it qualifies, I’ll let you in.”

  Anna looked at the line of girls waiting to get into the house. Were they all willing to turn around and see if they “qualified” to get into this party? She couldn’t believe this was happening in 2015—and that the young women were going along with it.

  “Or you could tell a joke,” the kid said. “But it has to be a good one.”

  Sam flashed her FBI badge and a smile. “How’s that? Pretty funny, right?” The doorman stared. “Thanks for the invite.”

  Sam pushed open the front door. A wave of indoor air—hot, human, and jungle humid—hit Anna’s face. The interior was dark except for bright slashes of neon. The bulbs in the chandeliers were black lights, glowing purple. Everyone wore white T-shirts covered in neon writing. Many held highlighters and were drawing on one another’s shirts and skin, leaving colorful neon designs that glowed under the black lights. It was like walking through the negative of a photograph. Everything white shone purple, everything neon fluoresced, and everything else was shrouded in black.

  They pushed through the crowd in the foyer. Rooms sprawled darkly in every direction, each throbbing with music and packed with glowing young people. The scent of beer, sweat, and Axe body spray was everywhere.

  “I’m looking for Dylan Highsmith,” Sam shouted to a young man near the staircase. He eyed them appreciatively and flashed a drunken smile, which made his teeth glow purple. Sam was obviously not a student, but she was a beautiful woman in her midthirties, with a mass of dark, curly hair. She wore black pants and a black leather jacket, and she rocked them. Anna herself was twenty-nine, probably too old to be mistaken for a student, but she had long blond hair, and her long coat hid the fact that she was wearing a pantsuit.

  “What’s it worth to you?” the kid leered.

  As a young woman in a profession where people expected a gray-haired man, Anna was used to being underestimated. She’d learned to use that. Being underestimated could be a power in itself.

  “We’d be really grateful if you could point us in the right direction,” Anna said, smiling at him.

  “That way.” The kid pointed and smiled back. “Dylan’s wearing the crown. Want a drink?”

  They followed his finger into a large back room. It was dominated by a Ping-Pong table, held up by four seminaked boys on their knees, acting as the legs of the table. Neon designs glowed on their exposed skin. On the surface of the table were four Solo cups filled with beer. Four boys were playing beer pong in the dark. The white ball glowed purple as it bounced back and forth. Neon-hieroglyphed girls watched and cheered. When the ball splashed into one of the plastic cups, the player in front of it lifted it and chugged. He almost got to the bottom, gagged, and stumbled to the corner. “Boot! Boot! Boot!” yelled the crowd, as the kid vomited into a garbage can.

  The players on the other side of the table roared with victory and high-fived. One of the victors wore a shiny white plastic crown, glowing purple. He had dark hair, perfect teeth, and jeans that might’ve cost more than Anna’s weekly salary. Sam and Anna made a beeline for him. “Dylan Highsmith?” Anna asked.

  He looked her up and down, then grinned. His teeth glowed bright purple. “Hey, babe.” He reached out and grabbed Anna’s butt, a big fleshy handful, which he squeezed and used like a handle to haul her into his chest. He brought his leering mouth down, breathing beer fumes into her face. Anna was so surprised, she didn’t think about how to react. She just reacted. She shot her knee up, hard, into his groin. He grunted, let go of her, and doubled over. The crown tumbled off his head.

  Dammit, Anna thought, as she stepped back. That was not going to facilitate the kid’s cooperation. Nor was it going to look good on Sam’s 302, the FBI report that would summarize the witness interview.

  Dylan straightened up, narrowed his eyes, and took a threatening step toward her. Sam drew back her leather jacket, revealing the badge and gun at her waist. “FBI Agent Samantha Randazzo. This is Anna Curtis, Assistant U.S. Attorney. I suggest you take a moment to collect yourself, sir.”

  A few kids hooted at the realization that Dylan had groped and then been kneed by a federal agent. A girl with honey-colored hair and Tory Burch flats picked up the plastic crown and held it like something precious.

  Sam said, “Do you need medical attention?”

  Dylan stared at the badge and shook his head. His beer-pong partner came over and stuck out a hand. “Peter York,” he said. He carried himself with the self-assurance of a boy who grew up in a country club and had been trained from an early age on how to interact with servants and other lesser beings. “Can I help you?” The girl holding the crown fitted herself into Peter’s side.

  “We’re investigating the disappearance of Emily Shapiro,” Sam told Dylan. “Where can we talk privately?”

  “Emily Shapiro is a crazy bitch,” said the girl.

  “And you are?”

  “Whitney Branson, one of her roommates.” She swiped a manicur
ed finger quickly under her left nostril, then her right.

  “Shut up, Branson. Don’t say anything till I come back.” Dylan pulled out his phone. “I need a minute,” he told Sam. He walked to a corner and made a call.

  “Can I offer you a beer?” asked Peter.

  Sam took out her notebook and asked for their names and DOBs. Anna scanned the party. It had quieted considerably. The students stood in clusters, watching them and whispering. The space around Anna and Sam had grown, as if law and order were contagious.

  Only the four miserable boys under the Ping-Pong table hadn’t moved. They kneeled on the sticky floor, arms raised above them to hold up the tabletop. They looked like the statue from Atlas Shrugged, only far less dignified. They wore only underwear. Every inch of their exposed skin, head to heels, glowed in highlighter designs: slashes, doodles, Greek letters, and cruel words. PLEDGE. SLAVE. WHALESHIT. BEER BRINGER. PISSANT. One of the boys met her eyes, and Anna startled. She wasn’t sure—the black lighting was weird and the kid was out of context—but something about his face looked familiar, like a shadow of Cooper’s. The boy quickly looked away.

  Dylan strode back into the group. “This conversation is over,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Anna.

  “Because I don’t feel like talking to you, and I don’t have to.”

  “It’s true, you don’t have to talk to us,” Anna said. “But you should. There’s a girl missing. We might still be able to find her alive. But we really need your help. You were the last person to see her alive.”

  “Let me make this totally clear,” Dylan said. “I’m invoking my right to remain silent and to have an attorney present when questioned by you. I’m also asking you to leave this house, which is private property. Leave. Now.” He turned to Peter and Whitney. “Was there anything unclear about what I said, witnesses? My lawyer would love if there were. We pay him seven hundred fifty dollars an hour, and he can’t wait to dig in.” Dylan looked at Anna. “He’s particularly interested in the fact that this prosecutor assaulted me in my own home. I may just bring charges.”