Come and Get Me

by August Norman

  He opened his door. “Could be wrong.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  THE BLOND DOLL in nineties plaid had a camera strapped around her neck and a red and silver wheelchair beneath her. According to the box, Becky was not only the school photographer, but Barbie’s friend. Though there were over fifty similar containers around the room, Becky appeared to be the only non-Barbie. The rest housed the Mattel namesake herself in various frozen moments of dazzling but impossible anatomy and wardrobe.

  Caitlin tapped the girl’s plastic prison. “You’re better than all these bimbos, Becky.”

  Paige Lauffer not only collected Barbies, she sold them online. Taped to the wall over a small desk, Caitlin found a spreadsheet with multiple listings.

  1920s Flapper—The Great Eras Collection—1993, new in box, $22.00—eBay since 3/22.

  1999 Erica Kane—Champagne Lace Wedding—never removed from box—1999—$22.00. Craigslist 3/25.

  A bright pink section of wall above the printout, maybe a foot and a half wide by eight inches tall, stood out from the rest of the faded paint. A single drywall screw remained in the center.

  Caitlin moved back to the living room and its plug-in air freshener’s impression of lavender.

  A gray-haired man in a sheriff’s department uniform, brown top and tie, traditional five-point star, and gray slacks, held a wide-brimmed hat. “See anything we haven’t?”

  “Just dolls,” Caitlin said. “Maybe something missing from the wall in the bedroom. Besides that, I wouldn’t know what to look for, Deputy.”

  “Actually, it’s Sheriff, Miss Bergman.” He held out his hand. “I’m Douglas Hopewell, and I doubt your eyes miss anything.”

  She gave as firm a shake as she could, then gestured toward Greenwood, two county detectives, and the crime scene investigator working the living room. “I’m not in the way here?”

  Hopewell shrugged. “New York says you’re all right with him, you’re all right with me.”

  “ ‘New York,’ huh?”

  “Didn’t know? Jerry might be a local, but he spent plenty of time away. I’ve got four detectives total in my department, all great people, but there’s nothing like experience. He’s handled more violent crime out East than I have in my whole career. Since his wife passed, he’s done nothing but work his ass off.”

  The first time Caitlin had met Greenwood, he’d mentioned his mental state two years back had nothing to do with Chapman. Now she knew why.

  Hopewell moved toward the door. “This air freshener is killing me.”

  Outside, the sheriff leaned against a cinder block wall. “Sweetheart of a day, and you can quote me on that.”

  Homespun, but apt. Close to five PM and still beautiful.

  Caitlin joined him in repose. “You called this a crime scene, Sheriff. Does that mean something they’ve found suggests Paige Lauffer didn’t head up to Indy for a Barbie convention?”

  Hopewell put his hat on. “From what we know so far, that would be out of character. She wasn’t in a relationship, worked five nights a week at a bar near campus, and volunteered at the nursing home where her mom lives. She didn’t show up for work last night, didn’t stop by the home this morning. They’re the ones who called.”

  “Her mother?”

  “No, her mother’s been comatose for two years. The volunteer coordinator reached out. Of course, we’ll check her phone, email, and what have you.”

  Caitlin saw a storm’s worth of leaves on the green Ford’s windshield. “That hers?”

  He nodded. “Last rain was Friday. Hasn’t moved since. She’s an avid runner, 10K most mornings.”

  Caitlin thought about the road Greenwood brought them up—plenty of curves, not much shoulder. “So there’s a good chance she got clipped by a car.”

  Hopewell nodded. “Not much a human body can do against a drunk driver. We’ve started a sweep of the surrounding roads and will have a press conference ASAP. People around here don’t ignore announcements about missing girls.” He didn’t have to say “anymore,” or “since the incident,” or “because of Chapman.” The case of the missing student simmered under the county’s collective surface. “So,” Caitlin said, well aware of a change in the sheriff’s posture, “no chance of a connection to Angela Chapman?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  A large black SUV pulled onto the driveway.

  Hopewell straightened his perfectly aligned hat. “Guess we’ll see what the feds say.”

  * * *

  Both Greenwood and Hopewell introduced Caitlin to the two male agents, but neither the lanky redhead from the Bloomington resident agency nor the tall superior with the military bearing from the Indianapolis office would comment.

  After five minutes in a huddle with his peers, Greenwood moved toward the car. “Ready?”

  Caitlin got in, buckled up. “I couldn’t hear much from the sidelines. What’s the next step?”

  “Hopewell’s people are setting up a press conference to get the public involved. They’ll also get a warrant for Lauffer’s cell.”

  “Can’t the FBI access that info, Patriot Act and all?”

  Greenwood pulled out and passed a slow-moving pickup truck. “They saw this as a local issue, if it’s an issue at all.”

  “Right,” Caitlin said. “A local nonissue that brought out the police, the sheriff, and the FBI.”

  Greenwood’s smirk said she was on to something, but his words moved on in business mode. “Having seen the house, I think Hopewell’s theory is the strongest. Woman loved to run, crack-of-dawn type. A tired trucker on a twisty road could have seen her too late. Personally, I’m hoping she started some ecstasy-based spiritual bender and will show up tomorrow with a butterfly tattoo and a newfound love of life.”

  Caitlin laughed. “You have a butterfly tattoo somewhere, Greenwood?”

  He gave her a wink, the good kind, like in the movies. “Boy has to keep a couple of secrets.”

  Caitlin started to say something about how sexy boys who kept their mouths shut were, but stopped when the image of a butterfly tattoo on Paige Lauffer’s ankle morphed into a hummingbird on Angela Chapman’s neck.

  “What if Paige doesn’t wander in from the wild with flowers in her hair?”

  Greenwood’s eyes went back to the road. “Her phone’s GPS data might show where she is. Meantime, our patrols will ask other runners and cyclists if they remember seeing her.”

  He stopped for a red light. No cars waited at the intersection.

  “You can go,” Caitlin said. “I won’t tell.”

  He smiled. “Trying to corrupt me, Bergman?”

  “We didn’t have many Boy Scouts in Los Angeles. I always wanted to see what happened when the neckerchief came off.”

  His smile crept wider. “Might have to dig up an outfit.”

  For a second, Caitlin couldn’t think of anything but unbuttoning Greenwood’s shirt. “Maybe you should.” The green light put her back to work. “So, no walking through cornfields tonight?”

  “Not yet. Once we get geo tag info, we’ll move into the volunteer army phase.”

  “Is that how it was with Chapman?”

  He shook his head. “Poor kid. Imagine a whole campus ready to help.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “Forty thousand Lakshmis armchair-quarterbacking our every move with their extensive Law and Order knowledge? They could have trampled Chapman with good intentions.”

  “How do you do it better?”

  “Reserves, cadets, call in other counties and ROTC—people who are used to command structure. Average citizens will rally around a cause for three days. That’s how much work the everyday employee can justify taking off. After that, the volunteer army dwindles to the family of the missing, and they’re fighting about whose fault it is.”

  Caitlin recognized the buildings on the outside of campus. She pulled out her phone, sent a text message: Get your people together. Press conference tonight. “What
about Doris Chapman’s army of amateur sleuths—the Chapman Chapter?”

  “Can’t blame the woman for wanting to be involved, but helpful hands often help no one, and sometimes they drag down others.”

  He stopped at a light near the arboretum. “Anyway, yesterday’s underage drunk and today’s missing woman might be all the crime Bloomington sees for a year.”

  “That would be nice,” Caitlin said, but thought about the word sees. What crimes was Bloomington not seeing?

  She studied Greenwood’s face, still unsure of his motivation. The man was likeable, good-looking, and obviously gave more of a damn about his job than most people she knew. But he’d been selling her something since the first time they’d met. Was it Nothing to see here, or Look closer? And if it was Look closer, why couldn’t he do it himself?

  * * *

  Caitlin and Mary found a spot on the back wall of the conference room. Despite the short notice, the press conference’s available seats had been filled by broadcast outlets from Indianapolis, print reporters from surrounding counties, and a single student-journalist: Lakshmi Anjale.

  The sheriff’s department displayed a poster-sized image of Paige Lauffer taken at the bar where she worked. Sheriff Hopewell started strong in front of a wall of law enforcement—several deputies, Jerry Greenwood, two uniformed BPD officers, and two state troopers. The FBI duo stood near the far wall, removed from the company front of reassurance. Hopewell gave the essentials, and then a female deputy took over. When the standard questions from the pros fizzled, Caitlin sent Lakshmi a text: Now.

  The girl’s hand shot up. “Deputy, do you believe Paige Lauffer’s disappearance is related to Angela Chapman’s in any way?”

  No surprise from the deputy. “Not at this time.”

  Lakshmi pushed. “I recognize two FBI agents in the room—Agent Mark Christiansen from the Bloomington resident agency—and Special Agent Antoine Foreman from Indianapolis. Can you comment on their involvement in this investigation?”

  The crowd’s necks craned toward the agents. Caitlin caught the slightest smile on Jerry Greenwood’s lips.

  The deputy at the podium paused for only a moment. “Of course, the FBI has extended all of their available tools to help bring Paige Lauffer back to us.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Lakshmi said, “but it seems unusual that an agent who specializes in the profiling of serial killers would be enlisted to locate a missing person in Monroe County unless there was some evidence, or at least suspicion, of foul play. Could either of the agents comment on their involvement?”

  Mary put her arm around Caitlin. “Where did you dig that up?”

  If Special Agent Foreman had chosen to keep Caitlin in the loop at Paige Lauffer’s house, she might not have spent her five solitary minutes searching for his credentials. The agent worked in the Indianapolis office, but articles showed his participation throughout the Midwest. He’d investigated gangland killings, arrested a notorious hit man, and closed a major cold case after twenty-two years—but nothing at the nonissue-missing-persons level.

  The deputy at the podium glanced over to the agents and stepped back. The redhead looked downright uncomfortable, but Antoine Foreman had no problem approaching the podium.

  “Someone’s done their homework,” he said, adjusting the microphone. “While you’re correct about my credentials, Agent Christiansen and I are here as part of a standard rotation. The FBI has technology and skills that not every branch of law enforcement can access, and we’re here to help Sheriff Hopewell however we can.”

  Foreman returned to his spot on the wall, and the deputy closed out the session.

  Greenwood followed the others off the platform. One step from the exit, he locked eyes with Caitlin and gave that wink again.

  CHAPTER

  19

  HE WATCHED THE broadcast live on the NBC affiliate, then opened his DVR menu and watched the ABC and CBS coverage. Then his laptop. He found the entire press conference without edits on the Daily Student’s website, and clicked “Play.”

  He laughed at the officers from the different agencies. Helpless behind their badges, clueless despite their guns, pointless in their pants.

  And not a single question from Bergman.

  A current of excitement throbbed from his toes to his fingertips. They had nothing and he had Paige.

  Still, he’d hoped for more from the great Caitlin Bergman. Too soon? She’d just gotten to town. He couldn’t expect her to be looking for him, not yet. But she would eventually—if she was what he hoped. The perfect addition to his collection, a public figure, a strong woman with horror in her past, and best of all, the words to describe every second.

  Paige awaited, but he couldn’t help himself. He opened a new tab and searched for missing student and Bergman. Exposure at the national level would be dangerous, but the thought of Caitlin’s attention got him straight up turned on.

  “Deputy, do you believe Paige Lauffer’s disappearance is related to Angela Chapman’s in any way?”

  Who just asked that question?

  He clicked back to the Daily Student tab to put a face to the ongoing audio. The camera angle hadn’t changed, so all he could see was shoulder-length black hair in the second row. He took the video back ten seconds, heard the tail end of the question again from the woman with the slight British accent. He didn’t need to see her face to recognize the Anjale girl. In the last two years, she’d tried to tie every crime in the county to the disappearance of Angela Chapman. Just because the stopped clock had the time didn’t mean she knew the answers. He watched the rest.

  An FBI profiler?

  None of the broadcast packages had included the involvement of an FBI profiler. He scrolled down the page, skimmed the two paragraphs below, saw no mention of the FBI. Apparently no one else at the press conference deemed the question germane.

  Clueless.

  Out the kitchen window, treetops waved with the breeze. He opened the front door, smelled the air, listened to the sounds. Everything hummed with energy, a perfect moment.

  Maybe this was what other people felt Christmas mornings. Maybe this was their sex. He shut and locked the door, went down to the basement, slid between the washing machine and the water heater, and felt the warmth of the water behind the metal against his crotch. He rested for a second, enjoyed the sensation, then moved into the one-foot space behind the appliance. He reached to the top of the cylinder, pulled the remote down, and pressed the button.

  Behind him, the wood paneling opened to darkness. He moved into the void, pressed the button again. Once the door closed behind him, he found the switch and brought his world to life.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Los Angeles

  MIKE ROMAN PARKED in the lot south of the Lake Hollywood Reservoir, then hiked down the asphalt road to the smallest of three four-story mansions crammed against the hill. A new silver Lexus sat next to a black Range Rover in an open four-car garage. For a twenty-four-year-old, Kieran Michelson didn’t seem to have any trouble with finances. Mike found the call box, pushed the button.

  Per Caitlin’s instructions, he’d called Rep Repair’s office the day before and asked about the Silicon Beach start-up’s service—online image consulting, threading, and management. It took a sales call with the CEO himself, Kieran Michelson, to explain exactly what that meant.

  For a chunk of money, Rep Repair would find online mentions of a person, monitor and analyze them in real-time for tone, and if necessary, enter conversations using aliases to discredit the haters. Kieran’s word, not his. In Mike’s words, they made bad people look good for money.

  Once he understood what Rep Repair did, he knew Caitlin’s idea of approaching Kieran undercover was out. Enough people knew Mike’s face in Hollywood that it would be a problem, and if not, he was sure the start-up used facial recognition software. He gave his real name and number. Seconds after Kieran ran his info through a search, he insisted Mike come by his house.

&n
bsp; The sound of flip-flops slapping on smooth steps grew louder, until the frosted glass door opened. A brunette, nude except for pink bikini bottoms, jelly sandals, and half of the world’s tattoos, looked at Mike, disappointed. He did his best not to stare at her unnatural beauty but couldn’t find a part that came with the original model.

  “You’re not the pizza guy,” she said through some sort of Eastern Bloc accent.

  Mike smiled. “Maybe someday.”

  She moved through the doorway. “Did you see him?”

  “The pizza guy? Nope. Is Kieran here?”

  She sat on the concrete stoop, eyes on the road, and flopped her hand toward the open door. “Up.”

  Mike hoped the pizza guy was a sixteen-year-old who needed a story to tell. “Fair enough.”

  He found the stairs, climbed all four levels toward the sounds of the party. The seventy-degree air-conditioning gave way to a blend of the afternoon’s eighty-degree breeze and the chlorinated scent of a pool holding the giggles and splashes of inebriates.

  “Mike fucking Roman.”

  Kieran Michelson, tall and athletic, with leading-actor good looks, waved from the trampoline at the other end of the thirty-foot pool, then launched into an irresponsible back flip. He swam his way past a pair of topless blondes floating on either their implants or the pool noodles beneath them. A pale man in a tank top and Rastafarian hat stood behind a DJ setup, tranced out to whatever music idiots listened to.

  “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

  Mike turned, saw someone in a movie-quality Spiderman costume suspended upside down from the building’s roof, five feet over a portable bar.

  “What does your Spidey sense tell you?”

  The tiny man let himself down, landed behind the bar. “That you need a cocktail, hero.”

  “Sure,” Mike said. “Whiskey and ginger.”

  Spiderman went to work.

  Michelson slapped a wet palm on Mike’s sport coat. “Mike fucking Roman.”

  Mike summoned a smile. “This is quite a place, Kieran.”

  “I thought I told you to call me K. Did you get a drink?” Michelson’s words came out cocaine quick. “Spiderman will make you a drink.”