When the FBI takes over the serial case, Jack and Carson are initially warned off, but grudgingly allowed in. They’d known they were after a dangerous psychopath, but they hadn’t realized his brilliance, or the scope of his bio-medical scheme. The plot they uncover is complex, sophisticated and far more evil than they could have guessed.

EXCERPT :

Cameron paced between the front and back doors. It was ridiculous to be this panicked, this quickly. She tried not to glance at the clock again. Only three minutes had passed since the last time she had tried not to glance at it. She retrieved her cell phone and continued pacing as she dialed. One ring, two..."C'mon, please be there," she whispered.
"Hello," a female answered, barely audible over a din of children and dogs.
"Julie, is Cassie with you?"
"No. What's going on?"
"She's–" The air rushed from her lungs. Oh, God, how did she say this? "She's not here," she blurted. "I've looked everywhere."
"Hold on," Julie said. "I can't hear over this noise." It was a long moment before Julie was back, this time, without all the background noise. "Okay now, there has got to be a logical explanation," she reasoned.
"She wasn't here–"
"Did you check the neighbors? Her friends?"
A note of hysteria crept into Cameron's voice. "I talked to her after school and she wasn't going anywhere."
"Stay calm. She's going to turn up. There's got to be–"
"I know, a logical explanation." Then, why the hell did she feel so panicked? "I'm going to call Ryan. Do you think I should call the police?"
"Call Ryan and call the slut–"
"Oh, you know she's not with either of them."
"Call them anyway, and then go ahead and call the cops. It's probably nothing at all, but it's a screwed up world. I'd rather do it and feel stupid when she walks in the back door."
Cameron felt nauseated from the mounting tension. Something was wrong. Something definitely was wrong. "Yeah, you're right."
"Stay calm, Cameron. She'll turn up."
Cameron hung up and stared out in a stupor. A logical explanation, a logical explanation. What?
'Okay', she mentally coached herself, assume there is a logical explanation. Assume everything is alright. In that case...
"You are so grounded," she whispered.
* * *
"Ugh, man, this shit's undrinkable," Jack Wilmont snarled while dumping the Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee in his garbage can. Even that he made a production of, holding the cup by two fingers and dropping the cup from shoulder height. Naturally the coffee splashed up from the can and zapped his white shirt sleeve. He stared as the brown spots spread and absorbed into the fabric.
Beatrice Moore watched him from her desk, just opposite his, entertained but expressionless. "Not smart," she offered in her grizzled, smoker's voice.
Jack turned his snarl on her.
"Just sayin'," she shrugged.
Jack made a pathetic sound, half groan and half sigh. He was dead-dog tired, and it was nine o'clock in the morning. Nobody, he figured, should be weary at nine o'clock in the morning. Today would have to be the day. Today he would tell the captain that he was taking a leave of absence. It wasn't going to be pleasant. He glanced up at the sergeant's door just as it opened and Captain Chester Whitesel stepped out. Jack hadn't realized he was in there. The sergeant must have said something to him because Chester leaned back in.
"Shit," Jack muttered, realizing the time was at hand.
"What?" Bea looked up.
Jack rose and rolled up the coffee stained shirt sleeve. "Sometimes I'm psychic," he replied.
"Oh, yeah?" Bea went back to organizing her case files. "And sometimes I dress up in plastic wrap and high heels for what's his name."
"What is his name this week?"
"Same as it has been for years and years. 'Oh, baby,'" she ended in a husky whisper.
Jack chuckled as he made his way to the captain.
"Hey," Chester greeted. "I wanted to talk to you."
"I wanted to talk to you, too."
"Let's go to my office."
Jack nodded and fell into step beside the older man. The captain's office was down the hall from the Major Crimes Task Force Unit, the small, twelve-man team of detectives that Jack was part of. Without his former partner, Carson, it was an eleven-man, actually eleven-person team. Bea would have taken objection to the 'man' part of the description. Without him, there would be only ten little Indians.
"How are you?" Chester asked, as they walked.
Jack could hear the concern. "Okay."
"Come in," Chester said, leading the way into the office. The captain walked around his huge desk, sat down, and kicked back in his well-worn, red leather chair.
Chester Whitesel was the most well dressed, most dignified looking man Jack thought he had ever encountered. Even in his early sixties, he had a kind of movie star quality about him. Dapper, that's what he was. He also had the impressive, if sometimes irritating, ability to stay calm and collected, even slightly amused, in any situation. It was as if he had the advantage of not only knowing the next page of the script, but how the scene would ultimately play itself out.
"Okay, who goes first?" Jack asked, settling across from Chester.
"Why? You have something to say?"
Jack nodded, cringing almost imperceptibly.
Chester considered the reaction. He picked up his pipe and bit down on the stem. It was unlit, of course. This was a smoke-free building, as preposterous as that was. "What is it you always say when you let me walk through a door first? Age before beauty?"
"I want a leave of absence," Jack blurted.
Chester frowned. "Thought I was going first."
"Sorry."
Chester sat up and put the pipe down. "Well, you started. Go on."
"I've been wanting to do it for awhile," he paused, wondering how to phrase what he had to say.
"This a temporary thing?"
Jack didn't want to commit. "That's what leave of absence usually implies."
Chester pursed his lips, then said, "Uh-huh."
"I don't know," Jack admitted.
"Is this about Elaine?"
Jack shook his head. "No, it's not about Elaine."
"Carson?"
"No."
"Then what? After fifteen years of this, why all of a sudden?"
"Fifteen years of this. There's your answer."
"There's my answer?"
"Yeah," Jack paused and held Chester's steely gray eyes for a long moment. "And do you know you're repeating everything I say?"
"I'm repeating everything you say?" The crease between Chester's eyes deepened, then relaxed. "Alright, I'll stop. Please continue."
"I used to love it."
"Used to." The Captain sat back and rubbed his eyes. "You know, I couldn't sleep last night, but I lay there and kept my eyes shut because insomnia kills my eyes the next day. So, I kept them closed. Kept hoping I'd drift off. I didn't, but I lay there all damned night with my eyes closed, except that about once an hour I'd look over at the alarm clock, and damned if they don't still hurt. Go figure. Used to love it, huh? And now?"
Chester opened his eyes. They did look bloodshot.
"Now it just makes me tired."
"Jack, it's a bad time for you."
"Why is that?"
"Elaine leaving. Before that, Carson getting shot, and then IA all up our asses about every move we made that day. Before that, your father–"
"I didn't have a father," Jack interrupted. "I had a dying man show up almost forty years after the fact and claim to be. Then die and leave me some money. It's not a fortune, but it buys me six months, a year. It didn't cost me a lot of grief. I didn't know the man."
"Six months to do what?"
Jack shrugged. "I don't know. Ask me in six months."
"Don't you want to know what I wanted to talk to you about?"
"Is it about a case?"
"Yes, it is."
"No, I don't want to know."
The silence that followed obviously bothered Jack more than the captain. "The truth is," Jack relented, "I'm not even good at it anymore."
"Missing girl. Nine years old," the Captain pursued.
"There's always a little girl missing. Always. I hate the hell out of it."
Chester heard the edge to Jack's voice. Suddenly, the lines at the corners of Jack's eyes and the touch of gray in his hair took on a new significance. "You may not think so," the older man said, "but I've been burned out before, too. That's all it is, you know."
"Burned out," Jack repeated. "That's my point."
"And I'm conceding it. You are wrong about not being good at it, though. You are. Maybe that's what you're tired of."
Jack wasn't sure how to respond, so he didn't. He just sat there like a lump. A big, tired lump. A big, tired lump with a guilt complex.
"Well, I hate this." The captain tossed his pipe down, and it bounced to the last few words. "First Carson and now you. So, what's it going to be? Two weeks? Effective next Monday? What?"
"I've got some stuff to wrap up that will take a day or two."
Chester nodded slowly before speaking. "You've been working toward this then."
"Yeah," Jack admitted. "I hated to tell you, but yeah. You know, I wouldn't disappoint you if I could help it."
"You've never disappointed me, Jack. Does Dancer know?"
Jack nodded. He'd told Chuck Dancer, the sergeant, days ago. That hadn't been a problem. He didn't have the connection with Dancer that he did with the captain. "I did and I told him I wanted to be the one to tell you."
"Guess that's why I didn't know."
Jack stood and extended his hand.
Chester stood and grasped it. "I should think of something light and funny to say about now. Lighten the moment."
"Yeah, but you didn't sleep last night. You can call me next week when you've thought of something."
"I'll do that," Chester said, as Jack walked out.
He sighed, already missing the man he had thought of as his young protegee. Of course, Jack was right to go. He wasn't a protegee. He wasn't even young. He was a forty year old man who had been at the same shit job for fifteen years. Chester picked up the phone and dialed Dancer's extension. They would have to reassign the missing kid case.
As Jack walked back into the squad room, Dancer was standing at his door. He gave Jack a significant nod before bellowing for Johnston and Jakab.
Beatrice, never one to miss anything, looked up as Jack slid back in his chair. "What?" she asked.
"What, what?" he countered. "Why don't you make some fresh coffee?"
"Why don't you," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "go fuck yourself?"
"Why not, indeed?" he replied cordially. "Nobody else is."
Fifteen seconds, he thought. She'll ask within fifteen seconds.
"What went on with the captain?" she asked without looking up.
"Taking a leave of absence."
She jerked her head up, shocked at this. "He is?"
"No, he isn't."
She didn't speak for ten seconds. "No shit, Jack? Why?"
"I know," he said, rising. "I'll make the coffee."
"Wilmont, sit your ass back down and talk to me."
He sat. "What?"
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to do it anymore. Because it's hard to get dressed in the morning to come in here."
"So come in naked. I don't mind and the rest of them will get used to it, once they get beyond that envy thing."
Jack grinned. "Let me rephrase that. I'm tired of it. I want a break. End of story."
"You sure this isn't about that bitchy, short haired, tramp ex-girlfriend of yours?"
"Don't hold back, Bea. Tell me what you really think of her."
"What? Did I step on your little toe or something?"
"No. I don't care. I can't seem to make anyone believe it, but this isn't about her. I'm over that."
She nodded, a sideways smirk on her face. "Okay."
"I am," he prickled.
"I said okay."
"Yeah. It was the way you said it."
He yanked on a side drawer and it rolled right off it's track and landed on the floor. He glared at Bea, as if she were to blame.
She bit her tongue to keep from snickering. "It's not about her," she conceded. "Okay, got it. It's not about her. So what is it about?"
"Shit, I don't know. You got me off base arguing about Elaine."
"Who it's not about," she added.
"I think that's 'whom'."
"Yeah? And I think–" she held up the middle finger of her right hand, "that's the right finger."
He ignored her while attempting to slide his desk drawer back in place. Bea sat back and stared at him.
"It's not going to be forever," he finally offered, unnerved by her staring. "But for right now, I have got to go do otherwise. This job is turning me into a shit person."
"I thought you were a shit person when you got here."
"That's what you get for thinking. I was a cupcake when I got here."
"Yeah, I'm sure of that. Like I'm sure I've got a dick between my legs."
"See? It's the same with you."
"How do you figure?"
"You were a girl scout when you got here. Now, look at you. You've got a dick between your legs."
She cackled and jerked her head toward the sergeant's door. Jack turned to see Jakab and Johnston emerging. Johnston, a file folder tucked beneath an arm, was looking like the proverbial cat that ate the canary. Only, the way Jack figured it, this cat wouldn't eat the canary; he'd merely maim the fucker, then call the T.V. stations to claim he'd found it that way. Not that, being a cat and all, he couldn't have just eaten it, you understand, but how he really wanted to do the right thing. Jack could picture it in living color. Picture it...he'd clear his throat, the guy was always clearing his throat, and ask if they had spelled his name right. It's Berry with e, Johnston with a t. Then he'd clear his throat again and ask if they thought it would make the 5 o'clock edition, human interest story and all. With the hard on the guy got from news coverage, he should have just been a news anchor, except that he wasn't good looking enough. Receding hairline, sharp nose, clearing his throat, full of himself, son of a bitch. Jack shook his head as he watched him strut out. Apparently, he got the missing child case. Jack wondered why that fact gnawed at him.
"God," Bea groaned. "Look at the riffraff I'm going to be left with. Now I'm depressed."
"That's a compliment if I ever did hear one."
"Hey," she beckoned.
He looked up at her to see real concern in her heavy-lidded and lined eyes.
"You sure about this?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah. I am."
* * *
Ellie Sorentino wasn't a pretty sight. She was red faced, huffing, puffing, and chugging along. As of this morning's torture session with the bathroom scale, she was close to forty pounds overweight, deeply ashamed of herself and deeply determined things were going to change. She was tired of cringing every time she looked in a mirror. Yet, somehow, she couldn't walk by one without looking. Her plan was simple. Every day, she would run. Or, more accurately put, she would walk in between short bursts of running. Try as she might, she couldn't run more than twenty yards without having to slow her pace to control her breathing. She would also cut out desserts and only have fruit for her snacks. It was a good plan. She'd be thin again by spring.
Ellie's subdivision backed up to the Hemlock Bluffs Nature Preserve, a densely wooded area and she ran/walked here for two reasons. One, because it was pretty and peaceful and, two, because she didn't want to be seen by any of her neighbors. Not until she was in better shape. Right now, it was just plain embarrassing.
Something black in the thicket ahead caught her eye. Knee level. A dog? She stopped and doubled over gasping for air and focusing in on the thing ahead. It wasn't moving, so it probably wasn't a dog. She had a pretty healthy fear of dogs, especially stray dogs, especially menacing stray dogs with sharp fangs and rabid slobber that foamed at the mouth. She turned to start home. Better not chance it. Besides, she had already run for at least half an hour. It was a morbid curiosity that turned her back around. What was that? If only she had her glasses on, but they slipped down her nose when she got sweaty, so she never wore them when she ran, despite having terrible eyesight.
She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head, watching very closely for movement. It wasn't moving, she was certain of that. She took a few steps toward it, feeling a foreboding creep up her trunk toward her throat. Even once she suspected it might be a person, she kept going. Surely not. A gaggle of geese flew overhead honking and nearly stopped her heart. She put her hand on her chest and considered going back and calling the police. Although, wouldn't she look stupid if it was a dead dog or a garbage sack. Then again, she wouldn't have to give her real name. But they would have her phone number, wouldn't they? It probably all came up on some computer screen. Her name, her address, her picture, what she had to eat yesterday. A wind came up and blew a chill right through her. Partially because of the sweat on her skin and partially because the black object lifted and blew. Hair. It was hair. Hair connected to a person.
"Hello?" she called, her voice quivering.
No answer. She stood rooted in her tracks. It could be kids playing a joke. It was getting close to Halloween. She stepped one single step, then another. She was about twelve yards away, squinting with all of her might, when she was sure. Black hair, white face, throat cut open, rusty colored blood all down the woman's shirt front sure. Ellie wanted to scream. In fact, she was screaming in her head; it was just getting caught somewhere in her throat. Why couldn't she make a sound? The dead woman's jaw was slack, and her eyes were open, and with Ellie's blurred vision, she seemed to be staring right at her. The sharp wind whistled, and it was as if the sound emitted from the dead woman. More terrified than she had ever been in her forty-two years, Ellie backed up blindly for several steps, until she came into contact with a tree. Then the sound came and came. By the time she made it back to the subdivision, still screaming, the last thing she was thinking about was how she looked.
* * *
"Okay, Miss Bennett," Johnston began the interview as he sat on the couch opposite Cameron.
"Bennett-Lee," she corrected.
He frowned. "Miss Benatly?"
"No. It's Bennett," she paused for effect, "Lee. Bennett was my maiden name. Lee was my married name, but for Cassie's sake, I've kept it. It's less confusing that way for school purposes and her friends. It's hyphenated."
"Hyphenated. Sure, got it."
The sharp nosed man, Johnston, glanced in his partner's direction like there was some unspoken joke between them. Cameron did not like this man. He was...greasy. Not greasy, hygiene. Greasy, personality.
Johnston cleared his throat. "Ms. Bennett-Lee, let's start from the point when you thought the little girl was missing."
"Her name is Cassie and I didn't just think she was missing. She is."
Greasy's partner spoke up. "You said you spoke with her in the afternoon. Is that correct?"
She could feel her stomach churning with tension. She had been through this and through this. Last night at the police station, when they told her she would have to wait seventy-two hours, and this morning over the phone, at which time they seemed to relent on the waiting issue, and now with these two. The same questions and the same answers over and over, and not a one of them was searching for Cassie. "I talked to her after school yesterday. She called me at work when she got home. She did that everyday, unless I was already home, of course. I finished up a couple of things at work and headed home shortly after we talked. When I got home, she wasn't here."
"What was the conversation like?" Johnston asked.
"Normal."
"What do you do for a living?" the partner, who was seated to her right, asked.
Cameron turned to him, deciding he didn't look so bad, and he sounded a hell of a lot less condescending than Greasy Johnston did. "I'm the daytime manager of The Cafe at Cedar Pointe Country Club."
He nodded. "That's a nice place. When you got home yesterday, were the doors locked?"
She thought about it. "I don't think so. But that's not unusual, really. We have a pretty safe neighborhood. That was one of the main reasons I chose it."
Jakab always wanted to groan when he heard that safe neighborhood expression. As if there were such a thing anymore.
"It's nice," Johnston observed. "Lot's of trees and across from the playground and everything. Must be expensive to live here."
Why did everything he say sound confrontational? A furrow deepened between Cameron's eyebrows. "For me, it is. It takes a lot of my income. But it's a good home in a good neighborhood and it's a lease option deal. The truth is, being married pretty much screwed up my credit. My ex-husband ran up some bills and...well, I don't need to go into all that. The point is, expensive or not, this house was a good situation for us. We like it here."
"I see you're having some work done on it," he gestured outside with his thumb.
"You mean the driveway?"
He nodded, "Mm-hmm."
"The owner is having that done. It was part of our agreement."
"When were the workers here?" the partner asked.
"It's been more than a week. They tore out the old driveway and poured a new one in one day. But, you can see, they left some of the big chunks behind that they still have to come back and get."
"Did anyone look or seem strange to you when they were here?"
"No. We barely even noticed them. They were here, and they were gone."
"Do you remember the name of the company that did the work?"
"Superior. It's the company my ex-husband works for."
"Cassie's father?" Johnston confirmed.
"Yes."
"Did you get him the job?"
"No. They're the biggest concrete company in the city."
"Have you been married more than once?"
She cocked her head, disturbed at the question. "No," she replied.
"What did Cassie say when she called you yesterday? Did she sound unusual?" Johnston asked.
"No. Like I said, it was normal. She said she had homework."
"Cam, guess what?"
"What?"
"I got a B+ on my report."
"Good for you."
"Guess what Kelli Pierce got?"
"I hope less than a B+," Cameron chuckled. Kelli Pierce was a popular little snot who had taken to picking on Cassie lately.
"She got a 'C'. The teacher said she could have done better."
"Maybe you could help her on that next report."
"I dooon't think so."
Cameron laughed.
"Are you coming home soon?" Cassie asked.
"I've got to call one vendor back about my order, and then I'm out of here."
"Okay."
"Have you got homework?"
"Three things, and I have to figure out my science project."
"You want to do something on mold? Mold can be really interesting. I've got some lovely specimens here I was going to throw away, but if you want them–"
"Yuck."
"Is that a no?"
"No. I mean, yes. That's a no. Gross."
"Ms. Lee?" Johnston was eyeing her.
Cameron jerked back to reality and found both men staring at her. "Sorry. I didn't sleep last night."
"When you got home yesterday, did anything look unusual to you?" the partner asked.
It felt like they were asking the same questions over and over again. "Except for the fact that she wasn't here? No."
"Was that unusual in and of itself?" Greasy asked.
"I'm home so soon after she gets home that she usually waits to go outside and play. She has a snack and starts on her homework. And if she does go out, she plays in the back yard on the tire swing or somewhere really close by. She doesn't go far. She never goes far."
"You called us at 5:00. You were sure something was wrong by then." Johnston said, glancing down at the report in front of him.
Cameron nodded. "I got home around three thirty. I started looking for her a little after four. The neighbors, the playground. I made a few phone calls, but…" her voice trailed off. "When she wasn't back by five, I called the police."
"You aren't the girl's mother," Johnston said.
The abruptness of the change of subject took Cameron aback. "Not her biological mother, you mean. No, I'm–I'm like her adopted mother."
"Like her adopted mother?"
"Yes, that's what it's like. Actually, I'm her stepmother."
Johnston leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "But you're divorced."
Cameron's head throbbed with a sudden headache. Her chest seemed to fill with irritation and frustration. Patience! One more time, get through this. "I know it's screwy. I married Ryan, Cassie's dad, when she was three, almost four. I had never even laid eyes on Cassie when I married Ryan and we dated for more than a year. Does that tell you what kind of a father he is?" She shook her head, remembering. "I knew there was a child from a previous marriage, and I knew he supported the child financially. But either I was told, or maybe I just assumed, that the ex-wife and the child were in another state. I don't know. I do know it was a shock to see her for the first time and to find out they had been here all along."
"A shock to see her?" the partner asked.
"Yes. It's one thing to hear about the kid from a previous marriage. It's another thing to see a little waif-like baby girl with huge brown eyes in front of you. She looked like one of those life-sized dolls. She was," Cameron searched for the right word, "unkempt, with the most tangled hair, but she was a little doll. There was something so fragile about her, so ...injured."
"What do you mean by injured?" Johnston broke in. "Was she abused?"
"Not physically, no."
"What does that mean, Ms. Bennett-Lee?"
"It means I don't believe there was any physical abuse. Emotional abuse is a different matter. Cassie had both a mother and father, but she was as much of an orphan as you can imagine. She was being bounced back and forth on a daily basis between her mom, who wanted to be out partying, and her dad, who wanted to be out partying, and occasionally, his mother, who is an alcoholic that I wouldn't leave a dog with. None of them wanted her and they weren't even discreet about that fact in front of her," she paused. She felt her face getting warm. "There is more than one kind of abuse. That's what I meant."
"Go on," the partner encouraged.
Cameron sighed and leaned back into the cushions. Her back ached from fatigue. "She was so little and so quiet. She hardly ever talked at first. I even wondered if there were some mental problems or a learning disability or something. It was even hard to get her to answer a question. She was always ducking her head, like she was afraid of the world."
"Is there anything like that? Mental disabilities, I mean," the partner asked.
"No, no, nothing like that. She's quiet and keeps to herself a lot. Her teachers are always saying they wish she would participate more in class. But she speaks well and she's smart. She makes good grades in school. She was smart enough, early on, to figure out that nobody really wanted to hear from her during those first few years of life."
The partner nodded toward a series of framed photographs: Cassie's school picture, a younger version of the child getting a piggy-back ride on Cameron's back, Cassie on the swing at the playground.
"She's pretty," he commented.
"Yes, she is," Cameron agreed, tears glistening in her eyes.
"So, how is it," Johnston started, "that when Mr. Lee and yourself got a divorce, you got custody of his and another woman's child? That's pretty odd."
Cameron shook her head, the frustration becoming real irritation. "I just told you. Nobody else wanted her."
"But you did."
Cameron felt intense dislike for this man twist in her gut. "Yes, I did."
Ms. Bennett-Lee had pretty green eyes, Jakab noticed, and they grew even prettier and more brilliant when she was angry. He thought, with a tinge of amusement, that if somebody were to put a nail head between her lips, Johnston would be wearing it right in the middle of his forehead right about now.
"What did you say her father does?" the oblivious Johnston continued.
"He's a foreman at a concrete company."
"Make good money?"
"Around forty-five or fifty, I think."
"Forty-five thousand a year?"
"Probably more than that now. Plus there's benefits and stock options."
"Does he love his daughter?"
"In his own way."
"That's a funny answer."
"I don't know how else to answer it. He does love her. He does care about her. He wants her taken care of. But he's not actively involved."
The men studied her.
"Do you think I don't know how bizarre this situation is?" she asked. "I know. And ten years ago, even five years ago, you would not have been able to convince me this would have been my life. I never even wanted kids. But, things changed. Cassie and I formed a family where there wasn't one before. It doesn't really matter who else is or is not involved. We have each other."
"And the real mother? What does she do?" Johnston asked.
Cameron bristled at his choice of 'real' mother. "Nothing," she answered, trying to keep her tone civil. "Well, she shops and she has her nails done."
"May I call you Cameron?" Greasy's partner spoke up.
She turned back to him. He was definitely the better man of the two. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry but I don't remember your name."
"Jakab." He stood and took a step toward her, holding out his card. "Rusty Jakab."
She took the card, and while looking at it, saw Johnston's head turn toward his partner. Was that a dirty look Greasy was throwing his way? Jakab sat back down. Standing had been unnecessary, a gesture of some kind.
"Did you call Cassie's folks yesterday when you couldn't find her?" Jakab continued.
"I called my best friend first, and then I called Ryan. He was still at work and didn't know anything. He hadn't spoken with her. Then I tried to track down Jolene; that's Cassie's mother, but I never could get her. I was told she was at some cabin that she and her new husband are building. It doesn't have a phone yet, so I couldn't talk to her. But–"
"But what?" Johnston asked.
"But she really isn't a part of Cassie's life. We haven't heard anything from her in weeks. She wouldn't know anything. I did leave a message on their home phone asking her to call when she got back."
"Has she called back?" Johnston asked.
"No."
"So the mother is newly remarried?" Jakab asked. "Has she made any noises about taking Cassie back?"
Cameron shook her head. "This is Jo's second marriage since Ryan. She doesn't ever make those noises."
"Tell me about the first marriage."
"Jo's first marriage?" she asked, surprised at the question.
Jakab nodded.
Cameron shrugged, trying to remember. "The first one was with Ryan, of course. She remarried right after they split. In fact, she left him for somebody else. His name was Tony –is Tony," she corrected. "I really don't know that much about him, except that he looked wealthy and successful. He and his partners had built a big business, selling those huge roll up doors for warehouses. Unfortunately for him, his business took some big hit, and Jo was out of there."
"A big hit," Johnston repeated. "What does that mean?"
"I really don't know what the story was on that." She almost added 'but it seems totally and completely irrelevant', but stopped herself. They had reasons for asking the questions they asked, and she had to stop second guessing them. "They got sued because one of the doors malfunctioned and someone got hurt. I really don't know the details, but the business shut down."
"So, Jolene doesn't work, she likes the easy life, and she doesn't want to mess with her own kid," Jakab repeated, getting a mental picture. "She likes money. What else?"
"She likes attention and drama," Cameron answered. "She's pretty, very pretty, and she likes to be told that."
"What does this new husband do?" Johnston asked.
"He's an officer with the State Highway Patrol."
Jakab cocked his head. "But they don't make any money. I mean not the kind of money it sounds like she requires."
"His family is supposed to have money, and he'll inherit. That's what Jo thinks, anyway. Of course, he may have just figured out that's what he needed to convince her of to get her to marry him. I don't know."
"Mm-hmm," Jakab nodded. "Ma'am...Cameron, I have to ask, has Cassie ever threatened to run away, no matter how innocent you think it was?"
"Never."
He nodded. Her answer had been simple, sincere and firm. The ones who lied always got real defensive about answering that, afraid it reflected badly on them.
"Is there anyone, Ms. Bennett-Lee," Johnston began, "anyone, that you can think of that has a grudge against you or Cassie or any member of your family?"
"No," she stated, flatly. She'd racked her brains about it. There was nobody.
"Okay. That should be sufficient for now, I think," Johnston spoke, then looked over at this partner.
"We'll start by getting some uniforms out here and canvassing the neighborhood," Jakab said to Cameron.
"I have talked to a few of the neighbors," she said eagerly.
"If you hear anything from her or about her, you give us a call immediately," Johnston said in an imperious voice as he rose. "Do you have that list of names and addresses we asked for?"
Cameron nodded and reached over to the coffee table for it.
"This is neighbors, too?" Johnston said, glancing over it.
"Yes. Family, friends, neighbors, teachers. Everyone I could think of that's had anything to do with her life."
"The house on your right, is that empty?" Johnston asked.
"Yes. It's been for sale ever since we moved in."
"And the house next to that?"
"Those people just moved out. They got transferred to Florida. It's not even listed yet, I don't think."
"Have you seen anyone hanging around there?" Jakab asked.
"No."
"Well, that will be all for now."
Cameron felt a rising panic. Don't just dismiss me. "What can I do?"
"Look around her stuff for clues," Johnston said, already walking off.
"Clues?" Cameron stammered, the word hitting her like a slap. She shot up off the couch. "Clues to what? Look, I do not know what's happened here, but Cassie did not run away. This is not some game."
"We know how you feel, and believe me when I tell you, nobody thinks that," Jakab said in a conciliatory tone, taking one step toward her. "But at this point in time, we just have to play it by the numbers, so to speak. Canvass, ask around, go from there. I know you've talked with some neighbors, and, of course, I would have, too, if I were in the same situation. But police officers ask different questions. We've been trained in what to ask and in how to read people's answers."
She nodded, her panic quelling slightly.
"We'll keep you informed about what we find out," he finished.
"As best we can," Johnston added, hiking up his pants as he stared out the front door.
Both Cameron and Jakab turned to look at him. Cameron watched as he walked through the door without so much as a backwards glance at her. She felt stung. She saw Jakab turn back to her with his head bowed slightly.
"I'd keep close to the phone in case anyone calls," he said in a quiet, apologetic tone.
"I have a cell phone and call forwarding. I haven't gone anywhere without it," she said. "No one has called."
She didn't have any real money. It was unlikely this was about ransom. He wished he could think of something to say that might reassure her, but it didn't seem prudent. These cases rarely turned out well. "I'll call you," he said.
As he walked out of the house, she sank back down on the couch like a balloon deflating. Those guys were the cavalry? Their best hope? She felt only slightly more helpless than angry.
* * *
Berry Johnston walked outside and breathed in the crisp, fall air as he looked toward the empty playground across the street. Playgrounds, a magnet for child molester freaks. Had some neighbor or passer-by watched the little blonde beauty, just waiting until she was alone? It was a beautiful day and this would be a great site for a news conference. Jakab walked out of the house behind him falling into step with his partner.
"You think the media won't be all over this?" Johnston said as he walked to the car. "The prettier the child, the more coverage it gets."
As he slid into the car, Jakab wondered if Johnston had any idea how utterly despised he was and with constantly renewed good reason.
"That woman wasn't bad, either," Johnston muttered, looking behind him as he pulled out of the driveway. "Not bad a'tall."
"Do me a favor and shut the fuck up," Jakab blurted.
"What the hell is your problem?" Johnston looked over at him, surprised at the profanity as much as the outburst. Both were totally out of character for Rusty Jakab. Someone had once joked that Jakab was a former mousketeer that had never fully grown up.
Now Jakab clammed up and looked out the window. What was the point in even going into it?
* * *
Cameron heard their car start, then pull away. The quiet of the house seemed to close in around her. The fear she felt was paralyzing.
"I have to do something," she said aloud.
Unsure of a course of action, she rose from the couch and went for her mobile phone and jean jacket.
Are you there? God, are you there?
The answer echoed in her mind. I am here.
Even asked and answered, she would wonder if she was just imagining it. But, the way she figured it, even if the voice was her imagination, that was okay. It worked for her. It had gotten her through a childhood of hell. It was not anything anybody would ever know about, anyway. It was her own private voice. Her own private God. Her secret.
Protect her, she prayed. Help me find her. She stepped outside and wondered if Cassie had her jacket with her. Yesterday had been a warm day. It was cooler today. Was she somewhere, cold and frightened? Maybe hurt or being hurt–Stop it, she commanded herself. Stop it! She walked faster, trying to outpace the dark thoughts.
Outside, she passed her next door neighbor's, Mr. Murphy's, house. She had talked to him yesterday, and he hadn't been home when Cassie got home. Talk about your assignment from the Twilight Zone. "Hello, how are you? My daughter is missing. Have you seen her? Please, can you help me?"
She passed the abandoned-looking Cotswald house. They were at the beach again. She headed for the next house, a pretty pale blue saltbox with white trim and a white van in the driveway. A family with teenage boys lived here, and they hadn't answered the door yesterday. This is where she would start. Cameron walked to the front door and hesitated only a moment before knocking. Something moved within and the door opened. A screen door stood between herself and a teenage boy. He was a nice looking kid, blonde, around fifteen, maybe sixteen years of age. His blue eyes seem to widen in surprise and alarm at seeing her. The look on his face froze her in her tracks, and they stood for a moment full of eternity staring at one another.
"Mike? Who is it?" A woman's voice came from inside the house. Immediately, the kid stepped back as an attractive lady with what looked like premature silver-gray hair and wide blue eyes stepped in front of the door.
"May I help you?" the lady asked.
"I–," Cameron's throat felt constricted. "I live three doors down. I'm looking for my daughter."
"Your daughter?" the woman repeated, confused.
"Cassie. She...disappeared yesterday."
"Oh, my God," the lady opened the screen door. "Come in. Please."
Cameron stepped in to what could have been a model for an issue of Traditional Home. Beautiful, classic, put together and picked up. Unlike her own residence, with hers and Cassie's shoes and books everywhere, not to mention brushes, jackets, ponytailers, papers and dishes they were constantly leaving places they didn't belong. No high marks for neatness at the Bennett-Lee house. But this one! This one was so clean, it gleamed it's own light. It didn't look like a home with teenage boys.
"How old is she?" the woman asked, her arms folded tightly in front of her.
"Nine. She turned nine last month."
"Oh, my God." She rubbed the sides of her arms as if she were suddenly cold. "I'm so sorry. We were gone yesterday. My son, my eldest son, Josh...we had to take him to the hospital."
"I hope it's nothing serious."
"Thank you," the woman answered, obviously unwilling to share more. "I'm Joan Lawson." She extended her hand. "I'm sorry we haven't met before this. You haven't lived there very long, have you?"
"Since June."
"Oh, dear. All through the summer and now into fall." Joan looked sincerely saddened. "It seems we're all so self-absorbed anymore, we just don't notice anything but our own lives."
The floor creaked behind her as Mike stepped backwards, trying to quietly retreat. Joan turned toward him and stretched out her hand, stopping him. "I'm sorry," she turned back to Cameron, "What was your name?"
"Cameron," she hesitated, "Lee."
Joan turned back to Mike, who stepped forward like the dutiful son. "This is my son, Mike."
Mike nodded, glancing at her and then averting his eyes.
"Mike, do you know anything?" Cameron blurted out.
Joan jerked her head from Mike to Cameron, shocked by the outburst.
Too abrupt, Cameron chastised herself. "I mean," she tried in a calmer tone, "you're more in touch with the neighborhood than I am. Do you have any ideas? Have you seen anybody–" her voice trailed off.
Joan turned back to Mike, who stood there turning red and saying nothing. She seemed to draw back a few inches from him, puzzled by his reaction.
"I don't know anything," he finally managed to get out.
Joan looked perplexed for half a second but then turned back to Cameron, composed. "I'm so sorry for your situation," she said. "If we think of anything that might help, maybe you could leave us your number."
Cameron nodded, although she couldn't tear her eyes away from Mike, who seemed suddenly fascinated by the grain in the hardwood floor underneath his feet. He knows something, she thought, and she knows he knows something.
Joan led the way to the front door, stopping by a neatly organized table to grab a designer notepad that matched the wallpaper. Everything else on the table coordinated with the design, even the hunter green ink pen. Cameron decided this went way beyond neat. This was anal.
"843-5653," Cameron said. "And we're in the book, in case you misplace that."
"Or you're just three doors down," Joan said.
It looked to Cameron as if Joan wanted to say something more, but she kept silent. After a moment of awkward silence, Cameron stepped past her. "Thanks."
She felt strangely numb as she continued down the street with no particular direction in mind. How am I going to get her back? she threw out to the universe. She waited but nothing came back. No answer, no assurances. Someone took her. That wasn't a question. It was a certainty. Someone had knocked on the door or maybe seen her on the street or walked into their house and they had taken her. They had tricked her or they had forced her. They took her...tooker, tooker, tooker. The sound repeated again and again as she stepped. She didn't feel her feet, only heard the sound repeat in her head. The question rising again and again with waves of sickening panic. How am I going to get her back?