Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “You’re kidding, right?” asked another technician whose workstation bordered Kris’s. Terry Parrish raked his long hair out of his face and smirked at Alex.

  “Don’t you two knuckleheads know anything about motorcycles?

  “Okay, Motor-head, enlighten us.”

  Alex sighed. Terry delighted in needling Kris. Mostly, she ignored him, but now her eyes filled with a look of pure irritation. With a cocky half smile, he angled his chair toward hers.

  “What’s it worth to you?” Terry’s suggestive smile met Kris’s dark frown.

  “Come on, Terry. Out with it,” Alex said, the warning evident in his tone. This wasn’t the time for grandstanding. Terry sighed, looking over at Alex.

  “The knucklehead was an engine designed for a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. It was named the knucklehead because of the distinctive shape of the rocker covers. You know what rocker covers are, right?” Terry flashed a condescending grin. “They stopped making the knucklehead in 1947 and replaced it with the panhead engine in ’48,” Terry added, continuing to recite the history of Harley-Davidson engines. “Followed by the ever-popular shovelhead in ’66.”

  Alex tuned out the running commentary on the history of Harley-Davidson engine types and verbalized his train of thought.

  “So, if Knucklehead has one of these motorcycles …”

  “Hogs,” Terry corrected. “You’ve got to respect the classics, man. There was the ’65 Mustang, the ’62 Corvette, and the ’47 Knucklehead. It was the best of its class.”

  “Right. Hogs,” Alex said, barely skipping a beat. “Can we use this to narrow the search?”

  “’Fraid not,” Terry said, eyes darting back to his computer screen in a reflexive motion before settling back on Alex. “There are enough of them floating around that it wouldn’t pinpoint him. But we could use it as a cross-check once we have a little more to go on.”

  “What do you say? Want to go for a ride?” Terry winked at Kris and patted the motorcycle helmet beside his monitor.

  “Shut up,” she snapped, and turned away.

  “Good God, woman, you have a mouth like a sailor.”

  “Are you still talking?” Kris asked, stubbornly staring at her computer screen.

  “Terry,” Alex suppressed a smile and shook his head.

  “What about the IP trace?” he asked Kris

  “Sadly for us, the guy’s no dumbass. He’s using a software program to spoof the IP address so we can’t pinpoint the location of where the email was sent. At least not yet. I’m still working on it. We’ll need a warrant to trace his identity through his ISP. I’ll start the paperwork.” She adjusted her glasses with a quick, unconscious movement and peered back at Alex.

  “Son of a bitch,” Alex grumbled. He knew there were lots of ways someone could change the email header information to substitute the IP address of the originating computer for a phony one. The email programs capable of manipulating a user’s IP address ran the gamut from simple to very sophisticated. Alex hoped that their suspect wasn’t too smart.

  If the guy took the time to spoof his IP address, he would bet money that this was no innocent encounter. He was trying to cover his tracks. Pedophiles were notoriously paranoid—with reason. There were ways to penetrate this type of online smoke screen, but they took time. And Natalie didn’t have time.

  “Here’s a copy of their email exchanges.” Kris handed Alex a file folder.

  “Does the pattern match any of our known operators?”

  “This guy’s new. I haven’t found anything using OPPS.”

  Kris inclined her head slightly as she met Alex’s grim stare. The Online Predator Profiling System database was one of the department’s best tools for identifying and apprehending online predators, and as he pondered this development, Kris continued.

  “I do have some good news, though. They were planning to meet for coffee in Fremont on Saturday afternoon.”

  “That’s something. Fremont. A Harley-Davidson would stick out like a nun in a brothel there.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Terry peeked around his monitor as he continued. “Harleys are pretty common, I’m just saying. There are a lot of doctors and lawyers who drive them, not just the outlaw biker types you see in movies.”

  “Hippies don’t drive hogs, and the IT crowd along the canal drive Ducatis,” Alex sighed.

  “Maybe.” Terry shrugged, sounding unconvinced.

  “I’ll keep following the IP trail,” Kris said.

  “Call me as soon as you get something.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.”

  Alex thumbed through the email printouts on his way back to his desk. Tossing the file on top of the already cluttered surface, he ignored the thick stack of pink while-you-were-out messages. He knew what they were—a long list of updates he needed to provide on other cases. But they could wait. Instead, he dialed Jackson’s extension. After four rings, he was transferred through to voicemail.

  “I’ve got an update on the Watson case. Call me when you get this.”

  He hung up, leaned back in his chair, and studied the emails more closely. The first few were “get to know you” types. Innocent enough on the surface. Natalie sounded older than sixteen. Good vocabulary, prose free from the typical slang. No dudes or likes to be found. No telltale IM colloquialisms. The emails to Natalie were simply signed “J.” No name.

  After the initial flurry, the tone between them changed and became more familiar. Knucklehead asked questions about where she went to school and what she liked to do. So he knew that she was a high school student, but he made no specific age inquiries.

  Alex rubbed his chin as he continued to read. Knucklehead requested a picture, which she sent, and although he was definitely older, he did not come across as menacing. He wanted to win Natalie’s trust before he tried to set up a meeting.

  Smart. Not too fast, not taking a chance in scaring her off. He’d probably done this before, and it was also quite likely, given the standard pattern of pedophiles, that Natalie was not the only girl he was stalking.

  This thought chilled Alex. With each passing hour that Natalie was missing, the possibility of her not making it home safely to her parents became more real. Natalie sounded like a shy teenage girl who wanted to get noticed, not a girl trying to escape her life.

  The last email was dated the day of her disappearance and fixed the location of the meeting at a coffee shop in Fremont. His telephone rang, and the display showed Jackson’s extension. He picked up the phone without identifying himself.

  “Meet me downstairs in five. Coffee’s on me.”

  9

  This was not the type of place he would expect to find an online sexual predator stalking a teenage girl, Alex thought as he stepped through the doorway of the Fremont Coffee House. The converted craftsman was cut up into small rooms crammed full of retro-hippie types bent over their laptop screens. The crowd seemed a little old for Natalie. He doubted that she was a regular, but that might work in his favor. With any luck, someone would remember seeing her here on Saturday. Each passing hour since he had taken the case made the clock in Alex’s head tick louder. They needed a break. And soon.

  Jackson Levy followed, angling his bulky frame though the narrow front door. With his close-cropped hair and mahogany complexion, Jackson tended to cut a wide swath through crowds, and this was no exception. Alex didn’t know whether it was his size or his get-the-hell-out-of-my-way attitude, but there were times when it sure came in handy.

  “I should have worn my goddamned Apple T-shirt.” Jackson’s thick voice was a low growl.

  “I didn’t think they came in your size.”

  “What can I get for you?” the guy behind the counter asked. Alex flashed his badge.

  “Detective Shannon, Seattle PD. This is Detective Levy. We’re looking for someone.”

  The girl working the cash register looked over sharply now, and
Alex showed them Natalie’s picture.

  “Have you seen her? We think she was in here on Saturday afternoon.”

  The guy shook his head, bored brown eyes taking a cursory glance at the photograph.

  “She’s not a regular, and I didn’t work on Saturday.”

  The girl studied the photograph a few seconds longer. Her face twisted into a thoughtful expression.

  “Is she in trouble?” Her eyes met Alex’s.

  “Did you work on Saturday?”

  “Yeah, I opened.” Her words were clipped, guarded.

  “Any chance you saw her?”

  Jackson flashed a brilliant white smile, rolling out his best “charming guy” routine. He loomed over the young woman, and Alex saw the tight line of her mouth soften. She glanced back at the picture, her eyes narrowing.

  “Maybe. It was a busy afternoon, lots of people, but I think I waited on someone who looked like her. Hard to say for sure, though.”

  The bell sounded as the door opened again. A cluster of caffeine-deprived customers pushed through the door, adding to the line behind them.

  “Around what time?” Alex persisted. The guy behind the counter shot them a meaningful look.

  “Come on, man. There are people waiting.” The guy leaned against the espresso machine.

  “And this is official police business. Got a problem with that?” Alex leaned further over the counter. Needing to get as much information as quickly as possible overrode the need to satisfy the geeks jonesing for caffeine.

  The girl shot her coworker a sharp glance.

  “Let’s take it over there.” She pointed to a stand-up bar near the side door.

  “She came in around three, I think.” The girl looked back at the line of customers.

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” She snapped her bony fingers and took the picture from Alex for a closer look. “She came in alone. But when I looked up a little later, I’m pretty sure she was sitting over there with some guy.” She gestured toward a small table by the window in the next room. “That’s what got my attention.”

  Alex’s heart began to beat faster, and he traded a quick look with Jackson. Could she describe Knucklehead?

  “Why?” Alex held her gaze as she considered his question.

  “He looked a little rough around the edges. Not the type we usually get in here.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” Alex prompted.

  “It’s not like he asked me out,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t get a really good look at him. He was sitting with his back to the counter. He was older than she was, with shoulder-length blond hair. Not as light as hers, more of a dirty blond. I remember a leather jacket. Black. I think it was black.”

  “Any patches or insignias on the jacket?” Possible gang affiliation Alex wondered. She shrugged.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Anything else you remember about him?”

  She placed her folded hands on her hips and shot Alex a give-me-a-break kind of look.

  “Do you know how many people come in here every day?”

  Alex sighed.

  “Did he drive a motorcycle?”

  “Not in here, he didn’t,” she quipped, her expression part playful, part exasperated. “Look, the door was closed, and there’s a lot of street noise. I didn’t see a helmet, but I wasn’t really looking either.”

  “Did they seem friendly?”

  “I guess so. I didn’t watch them or anything. Like I said, it was busy.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “When I took my break at four, they were gone.”

  “Any chance you’ve got video?”

  “Does this look like the kind of place that has video?”

  “Right,” Alex said. “Just a few more questions, then I’ll let you get back to work. Did anyone see a bike outside?”

  “I told you, the door was closed.” She folded her arms across her chest and cast a not-so-subtle look at the clock behind the counter.

  “No, I mean a bicycle. A black Trek,” Alex said.

  The girl shot a look over at her shoulder toward her coworker, and Alex saw something unspoken pass between them. Her coworker blushed before looking away. “Uh …”

  Bingo, Alex thought.

  “Did you see a bicycle like that outside? Maybe when you left?” he asked, his pulse picking up as he focused back on her.

  “No, but …” she trailed off, and shot a meaningful glance at her coworker.

  “How about you?” Alex asked turning back toward the counter.

  “No,” he said quickly, staring hard at the girl. She placed her hands on her hips and fixed him with her best maternal “Don’t lie” look. Alex noted that the barista, no longer bored, was standing at full alert.

  “Sunday morning when I went to the dumpster to throw out some trash, I saw a bike propped up against the trees. Figured someone was trying to get rid of it. Rode it home after my shift was over. I wasn’t trying to steal it or anything.” His white face lost even more color, making his skin appear almost translucent as he grimaced.

  “Is it here?” Alex asked, equal measures of anticipation and dread mingled in his gut. Reluctantly, the kid nodded. Alex caught Jackson’s eye as the barista led them out of the shop, through the side door, and to the alley. If indeed it was Natalie’s bike, this wasn’t good news.

  Sunlight filtered through the trees at the back. The canopy of leaves created a pool of shade for the dumpster. Jackson squatted down beside the bike and read the serial number. Alex cross-referenced it against the one Natalie’s father had provided.

  “It’s a match. Looks like you’re going to have to walk home tonight,” Alex said. After a philosophical shrug that seemed to say “Easy come, easy go,” the kid wandered back inside.

  Alex dipped his head a fraction, taking in this new piece of information. There was no doubt left in his mind as to whether Natalie had been abducted. There was no way she would leave her bike back here. According to Tom, it was too important.

  With grim expressions, they searched the small wooded area behind the coffee shop for any additional sign of Natalie and found nothing. Staring at the green Dumpster, Jackson flipped open the lid and watched the flies take flight, a look of disgust crossing his broad face. Alex wrinkled his nose. The smell of rotting garbage filled the alley.

  “I wonder when it was last emptied,” Alex said, contemplating the garbage bags piled up above the Dumpster’s two-thirds marker. “I think it’s your turn.” His eyes locked with Jackson’s.

  “Didn’t I do the one over in Pioneer Square?”

  “You’re forgetting Belltown,” Alex pointed out.

  With a resigned look, Jackson scaled the side and jumped in as Alex pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a telltale snap.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jackson muttered from within the Dumpster, knee-deep in garbage. “They sure don’t show this in any of the recruitment brochures.” He lobbed another slick garbage bag over the lip of the dumpster, and it landed beside Alex with a wet thud. “I’ll never get this shit off my shoes, and the smell …”

  Alex probed through the contents of the bag with his gloved hands. Coffee grounds, food scraps, stir sticks, paper napkins. No additional signs of Natalie so far.

  “You want to trade out?”

  The stench of rotten banana peels and mildew turned his stomach. He counted his blessings that the Dumpster was in the shade. If it were basking in the full glory of the sun, the bugs and stench would be worse.

  “I wouldn’t want you cybercrime geeks to get your hands dirty.”

  The good natured barb rumbled from within the Dumpster, and Alex couldn’t suppress a grin.

  “Aw, is Princess getting dirty?”

  “Fuck off, Shannon.”

  A little more rustling from within the Dumpster before Jackson’s head popped up. His jaw was set in a grim line as he held up a black backpack. Alex felt as if he had been knee
d in the guts as he dropped the sack of garbage and held his hands out.

  Jackson tossed him the bag and climbed out of the Dumpster. Alex pulled on fresh gloves and was already checking the contents by the time Jackson reached him. Novel, notebook, pens, and a small purse were in the main compartment. The wallet contained some cash and a student ID. Natalie Watson’s face smiled up at them.

  “Damn it,” Alex swore softly as he handed the ID to Jackson and searched the other compartments of the backpack.

  Alex stopped, and he sat back on his heels as he rooted through the bag. “No cell phone,” he said. Jackson crouched down beside him.

  “Do you think she still has it on her?”

  “Phone records show no outgoing calls since Saturday afternoon. We couldn’t ping it.”

  Standing up, he took another look around, his eyes slowly combing the area. Reflected sunlight winked at him from between the stairs. Stepping closer, Alex saw a discarded pop can.

  “Shit,” he said and was about to turn when he saw something else. Pushing the can aside, he pulled out a cell phone. The outside casing was cracked, and it was dead.

  “Damn,” Jackson muttered.

  Turning it over, Alex checked to see if the battery was intact. It was missing. Had Knucklehead removed it? It was a Samsung Galaxy. Same model as his. With any luck, it would still run. He popped the battery out of his phone and placed it in the one he’d found. A quick push of the power button and the splintered screen display came to life. The two detectives smiled. “Let’s hear it for hardware.”

  There was no access code on the phone, and Alex quickly scanned the list of recent numbers that had been called. He recognized Natalie’s home number right away, alongside a few that he did not. He would cross-reference them against the phone records once he got back to the station.

  On a hunch, he took a look through the directory of photographs. The most recent photo was taken on Saturday, a partial shot of a man’s face framed by shoulder-length dirty-blond hair. Well, well, who did we have here?