The Lost Girl (A Mickey Keller Thriller Book 1)

by Alan Jacobson

  Giselle and Melissa nodded.

  “Those photos you gave me from your iPhone are extremely helpful, Giselle. That alone may be the single most important tool we have in this search. That and bringing this to our attention. Just remember that sometimes bad things happen. Blaming yourself won’t help us and it won’t help Melissa.”

  Giselle looked down at her lap.

  “I want you both to stay positive,” Hill said. “Out of every 10,000 missing children reported to the local police, 9,999 are found alive.”

  “Those are incredible odds,” Ellen said.

  “We’ll have law enforcement officers across the state looking for her very shortly.” Hill handed them each a card, embossed with a gold FBI shield and emblazoned, SAN FRANCISCO DIVISION.

  “Is there anything we should do?” Giselle asked.

  “Go home. We’ll contact you if we need more information.”

  “But the Ellises bought me a ticket to Germany. I’m supposed to leave tonight.”

  “Well,” Hill said, “you can tell them that until we get this sorted out, you’re not going anywhere.”

  Ellen gave Giselle’s hand a squeeze. “You can stay at my place.”

  Giselle bit her bottom lip. “Thank you so much.”

  “Very good.” Hill shook their hands. “You two think of anything else, call me.”

  34

  Moments after Keller spoke with Ted, the motel clerk, Martinez at Tait Protection called to tell Keller that he picked up a temporary credit card authorization at the Sands. Keller chuckled to himself and told him he had already figured that out.

  Keller exited Freeway 101, marveling at the beauty of the region’s mountains and green rolling hills. He had passed the Paso Robles wine country twenty minutes back. Had this been a vacation, he would have loved to stop and spend the afternoon. Or two.

  He knew of the area because of the fruity Zinfandels, full-bodied Cabernets, and Bordeaux-style blends he had consumed over the years. But other than driving past central California en route to San Francisco from Los Angeles along the inland Interstate 5, Keller had never visited the Golden State’s heartland. While this lack of familiarity would normally put him at a disadvantage, the most important thing was getting near Amy Robbins and the girl. He would figure it out from there.

  He passed the parking lot of the Sands Motel in San Luis Obispo, a town known for the highly regarded Cal Poly, the California Polytechnic State University that graduated top engineering, agriculture, and animal science students.

  He drove a half-mile circumference around the Sands property, getting a feel for the area, including routes of ingress and egress.

  He pulled into the lot and found a parking spot a dozen yards from Robbins’s room. The place was an older structure, well maintained but tired. Wrought iron staircases led to a second story. Small planters here and there softened the hardscape.

  Fortunately Robbins was on the first floor. But the main entrance to the grounds was narrow and fixed on both sides by buildings. There was a secondary exit around back but getting there was convoluted and equally confining. Bottom line, it was a bad place to get trapped.

  After checking that the parking lot was clear, he pulled an attaché out of his trunk and chose a fake mustache and goatee, Dodgers baseball cap, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Though not a foolproof disguise, it should prove sufficient for a person unaccustomed to the tradecraft of playing fugitive. Robbins probably figured that putting three hundred miles between herself and her pursuer was a safe buffer.

  Keller did a pass of 124, pausing to look through the white window curtains. They were room darkeners, but no lights were visible below the bottoms of the drapes. The TV was off and a second with his ear to the glass told him no one was talking. The lock used electronic key card access. While that was not insurmountable by itself, the location was in clear view of everyone in the parking lot. Breaking in was a poor option.

  He took a circuitous route and returned to his car, where he spent the next twenty minutes studying maps of the area on his Surface, trying to get a better picture in his mind of the town. A short time later, with the suggestion of dusk on the horizon, Robbins’s Subaru rolled into the lot.

  As she and the girl parked, Keller sat up and partially covered his face with his left hand, not taking a chance that the tinted windows and/or disguise provided insufficient. While Robbins had only seen him once—and in a moment of extreme fear, at that—he did not want to give her any unintended advantage.

  After the door to their room closed, a few other vehicles pulled onto the property. He waited for an opening to act, but before anything presented itself, Robbins and the girl left and got back in their car. He started his vehicle—and they started theirs.

  They were on the move. And so was he.

  35

  Melissa laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Amy asked, looking in the rearview mirror.

  “The leopard joke.”

  Amy smiled. “I like that one, too.”

  “Can you tell me again?”

  “You sure? Last time you couldn’t stop laughing for five minutes.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Why couldn’t the leopard play hide and seek?” She glanced over her shoulder at Melissa. She saw anticipation and joy.

  “Why?” she asked, already grinning.

  “Because he was always spotted.”

  Melissa cackled—as did Amy, until tears flooded her eyes and she had difficulty driving.

  “You know, Missy, it’s just not that funny.”

  “Yes it is,” Melissa said. “It is.” She laughed again.

  “Okay, okay…”

  Amy found a parking spot and turned off the engine.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I already told you, silly. We’re gonna do some shopping at the farmers market.”

  “Are we going to buy a farmer?”

  Amy turned to look at her. “That’s funny.”

  “I made a joke.”

  Amy nodded admiration. “That wasn’t bad.”

  “It can’t be bad if it’s funny.”

  Amy pulled the door open and helped Melissa out. “Actually, it can be both bad and funny.”

  “It can?”

  “Humor is a complicated thing sometimes.”

  Melissa seemed to accept that—or was trying to understand how something that’s funny could be anything more than that.

  They crossed to Higuera Street, where the farmers market was located. People milled about, parents toting their children and vendors selling their wares along the curbs under blue and white tented canopies. Fresh, organic vegetables and fruits were piled in boxes exuding a spectrum of colors from luscious burgundies and deep greens to summer yellows and earthy browns. Music played from down the street. Teens rode bikes and adults pushed strollers.

  “What do you feel like eating?”

  Melissa looked at the pile of fresh-picked radishes as she walked by. “I dunno.”

  “Let’s look around. We’ll find something yummy.”

  KELLER PARKED AND watched as Robbins and Melissa got out of their car. He was surprised Robbins had chosen this location, as a vacant police vehicle sat at the curb two car lengths in front of her Subaru. Most likely, she had not seen it.

  His preference was to wait until they returned, and then take the girl. But the proximity of the cruiser greatly increased the risk.

  Keller moved on to plan two: he followed them on foot at a discreet distance, attempting to blend in with the people drifting from vendor to vendor.

  Dusk moved on as night arrived in the eastern sky. While there was still a hint of cobalt blue brightness in the west, and although the streets were fairly well lit, it still presented a better environment for doing a snatch and grab than during the day
, as there were a substantial number of mature oaks obscuring the reach of the streetlights. Along with the vendor canopies, blind spots were present on each block.

  Keller tailed them as they purchased some fruit and a couple slices of pizza from one of the area restaurants that had a portable oven set up under its tent.

  Robbins and the girl passed someone dressed as a giant brown bear with an orange scarf and a permanently gaping mouth emulating a smile. Melissa pointed at it and the “animal” interacted with her, animatedly touching the girl’s nose and telling her how cute she was.

  Keller passed a few uniformed baseball players at a booth teaching kids how to hold a bat; a bit farther down the street, fire fighters in near-complete turnout gear were taking turns hoisting boys and girls into the cab of their engine, giving each an opportunity to sit behind the wheel and “drive” it.

  Keller kept updating his planned route of egress after he secured the girl while taking an inventory of the police presence in the area—he saw none on foot, though because of the cruiser he had seen by Robbins’ car, he knew they had to be around. This was a safe neighborhood, with the worst offenders likely being drunken college students leaving a bar or club in the early morning hours.

  But Keller was pragmatic. Although he knew his secondary plan was less than ideal, there did not seem to be a better way of securing the girl and making a clean getaway. No matter what he did, there was risk. With so many people in the area, however, he was counting on them fomenting confusion, allowing him to blend into the masses.

  To prevent any chemical odor from alerting anyone in such close quarters, he had a BetaSomnol-soaked rag sealed in a Ziploc in his pocket. Once he got Melissa to a secluded area, he would inject her with a longer-acting dose to induce sleep and reduce anxiety. When she awoke, she would be home in her own bed. No drama. And she would have no recollection of the ordeal.

  If he was corralled by law enforcement, he would attempt to ditch the baggie containing the rag. If questioned, he was a private investigator hired to find and retrieve the abducted girl.

  But doing his job properly meant zero contact with the police.

  Keller decreased his following distance, creeping closer while maintaining awareness of Robbins’s state of mind. As of now, based on her body language and the casual nature of her movements, she had no inkling she was being followed.

  After eating, Robbins and Melissa stood in line at an ice cream vendor. Keller gave a final check of his surroundings and liked what he saw.

  This was his chance.

  He moved swiftly but carefully—to avoid bumping anyone, getting into an argument, or drawing attention to himself—and within several seconds was standing a few feet behind Amy Robbins, Melissa to her right and slightly behind her hip.

  Keller glanced at the people gathered around the stand. He figured he would grab Melissa and clap the soaked cheesecloth over her nose and mouth as he carried her away. Her fear would cause her to suck the BetaSomnol deeply into her lungs and hasten its effects. Robbins would be looking around, wondering where Melissa had gone. If he timed it right—and executed it well—she would not know there was something wrong until she turned around to hand the girl her cone.

  He was not concerned about anyone identifying him. His disguise, combined with poor eyewitness reliability and the paucity of security cameras that could capture his likeness, was sufficient to keep him out of the crosshairs of law enforcement.

  Keller moved in as the line brought Robbins closer to the attendant. As she gave the man their order, Keller walked up to an area in Robbins’s blind spot, directly behind her.

  As Robbins pointed to the tub of strawberry ice cream, Keller opened the bag and closed his fingers around the rag in his pocket.

  36

  A dog barked.

  It was close and loud and angry—followed immediately by another responding in kind. Everyone turned—and Keller did the same, not to see what the ruckus was but to shield his face from Robbins.

  Keller moved away, heading past the canine altercation and melting into the crowd of bodies. His heart was pumping harder than usual. Despite having mastered the skill of lowering his blood pressure and slowing his breathing before engaging an enemy, the close call caused an uncharacteristic adrenaline dump into his bloodstream.

  He stopped thirty yards or so away and swung back, picking up Robbins and the girl as they licked their ice cream cones. They had no idea how close he had come to securing Melissa. How close he had come to securing the five-million-dollar payday.

  He needed a few minutes to regroup and try again.

  He reassessed the area, going through his check-downs like a skilled NFL quarterback. If one receiver was not open, look for your secondary targets. It was frustrating to start back at square one, having been on the cusp of success…but sometimes that’s how it went. He had been involved in many such scenarios while in Delta, so he knew how to turn off the emotions and focus on mission objectives.

  Right now, that was exactly what he needed to do.

  AMY LICKED HER ice cream. “This is really good. Sure you don’t want to taste it?”

  “Uh-uh. I don’t like that flavor.”

  “Good rum raisin is heavenly. Haven’t had it in years. Haven’t had ice cream in years.”

  “How come?”

  Amy thought about that. She knew the answer but was not sure how to explain it. “Wasn’t in the mood.”

  Melissa stopped eating and turned to Amy. Her brows lifted. “I’m always in the mood for ice cream.”

  “I used to be.”

  They came upon a booth for the Cal Poly university band. They had brass instruments of all types—saxophones, tubas, trumpets…even a set of cymbals.

  Two college-age men and one woman were coaxing passersby to pick one up.

  “I’m Kathy. Have you ever played?”

  “When I was a kid,” Amy said. “I took lessons for a couple of years.”

  “Which instrument?”

  “Believe it or not, the tuba. I was barely big enough to hold it.”

  “Well then,” Kathy said, taking the large contraption from her colleague. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the folding chair to her right.

  “Oh no. I can’t. I haven’t played in years. A lot of years. Too many years.”

  “It’ll come back to you.” She held the instrument out, nearly pushing it into Amy’s chest.

  “Play it,” Melissa said. “Play it, Amy!”

  “You can do it,” said a man to her left holding a trumpet. “We’ll do this together. Then no one’ll realize it’s me stinking up the place.”

  Amy glanced over and saw three people in chairs, all looking at her. Apparently they were going to play as a mock band. This is going to be ugly. “Fine.”

  “Remember how to hold it?” Kathy asked.

  “Yeah, I think so.” She placed her fingers and Kathy fine-tuned her grip. A couple of minutes later, after doling out instructions, Kathy brought her hands up and then down, conducting the worst ragtag group of musicians west of the Mississippi.

  They blew and made horrendous noise for about fifteen seconds, at which point they all burst out laughing, none of them able to keep the seal on their mouthpieces.

  Amy looked over at Melissa to share the fun—but she wasn’t there.

  She stood up quickly, nearly dropping the tuba—Kathy grabbed it before it hit the ground—as Amy sucked in a deep breath, hyperventilating, swinging her head left to right and back. “Melissa? Missy, where are you?”

  She pushed her way through the crowd into a small clearing in the street and saw what looked like a man carrying a girl—a girl wearing Melissa’s shoes.

  “Oh my god,” she mumbled. “Melissa. Stop him!” Amy took off in a sprint, bumping into people and pushing others out of her way. “Help, police—he’s kidnapping my daught
er!”

  KELLER HAD DONE as planned, plucking Melissa away when the Robbins woman’s attention was diverted. He clamped his hand over the girl’s nose and mouth, the rag giving her a strong initial dose of BetaSomnol and making her body go limp. He had about a minute, give or take, before she would awaken. He needed to get her somewhere secluded to inject her with the drug.

  He refrained from running—people rushing somewhere carrying a limp child attracted unwanted attention. Instead, he turned her so that she was facing him and rested her face on his right shoulder—making it appear as if his tired daughter did not want to walk anymore and was taking a nap.

  That worked well until a woman—Robbins, no doubt—started screaming.

  He resisted the urge to react and kept walking, eyes darting around, trying to find a place where he could quickly disappear. An alley would be terrific just about now. A dark area where a streetlight was burned out would be a decent alternative. His car was still blocks away. Truth was, he was not entirely certain where he had parked. He needed a moment to get his bearings and compare his location to the map he had memorized.

  But he did not have a moment.

  Keller heard Robbins behind him—not nearly as far away as he had hoped.

  “He’s kidnapping my daughter!”

  In his peripheral vision, he saw people looking at him. And he realized he could no longer hide by acting innocent. He started jogging, squeezing Melissa against his torso, his right hand cupping the back of her head to keep her neck from whipping around each time his heels struck pavement.

  He cut right, down Broad Street, but the screaming continued.

  Heavy footsteps behind him. Men were after him.

  This was not going as planned. If they made any further gains, he might have to turn and confront them—and plead his case. Then the police would arrive and he would have to attempt to turn the table on Amy Robbins.