Minh pulled out his keys as they approached their Ford. “We don’t really know what’s going on. Robbins could be working with someone. I’m not convinced a woman saddled with emotional instability and mental health issues can pull off such a successful kidnapping without help.”
Hill opened his door. “Christine Ellis might not be credible, but it doesn’t mean she was lying. Phone call could’ve been real. She may not have contacted OPD because of the threat.”
“She said there was a woman talking in the background. If you believe her. We should pull her phone records,” Hill said, “see who’s called. Who she’s been talking to.”
“I doubt we have enough for a warrant.”
Courtland shrugged. “Lying to a federal agent—”
“Isn’t enough,” Hill said. “We need some kind of probable cause that we’re gonna find evidence of a crime in those records. Like complicity in the abduction.”
Minh got into the car. “Besides, if I’m not convinced she was lying, how are you going to convince a judge? We know Giselle was given a ticket back to Germany. Ellis saying it was a ‘vacation’ is, at best, a white lie. I mean, she could be characterizing it as that. Could we really prove to a judge that Ellis didn’t think Giselle was going to visit her family, or whatever, while in Germany? We’d be lucky to convince a judge of anything. And no way will he believe a young au pair over an accomplished physician with no criminal record of any kind.”
Courtland thought a moment. “The mother’s been victimized because her daughter’s missing. If we’re gonna victimize her again—by accusing her of being complicit and lying to the police—and then digging around her records—we’d better be right.”
“Sure wouldn’t play well in the media if we’re wrong,” Hill said.
Minh chuckled. “Understatement of the year.”
“What about issuing an amber alert?” Courtland asked as he shoved the seat belt latch home. “If she’s telling the truth about someone else being involved, that would be broadcasting the fact that she contacted the cops.”
Hill chewed on that as he started the engine. “Damned if we do and damned if we don’t. We don’t want to get the girl killed if Ellis isn’t jerking our chain. But if we don’t act and he kills her, we’ll be skinned alive for not issuing the alert.”
“Better to err on the safe side until we know what’s going on,” Minh said. “Let’s keep digging. Wait on the amber alert.”
Hill pulled the shift into drive. “Fine. But only for a day. I’m still not convinced she’s telling the truth.”
44
“Well that was upsetting,” Ellis said.
After talking briefly with Jennifer, Ellis and Christine retreated back into the room, shut the door, and sat down at the conference table. “If we don’t find that Robbins woman soon, we could be screwed.”
“Let’s not overreact, Christine.”
“Overreact? If the FBI’s on the case, how long do you think it’ll be before the media gets hold of it?”
Ellis chewed on that a moment. “I see your point.”
“And what if they go public with a press conference? If it goes on much longer, if there are no leads, they may do that. A plea to the public to keep their eyes and ears open.”
“You may be right. This is not good.” Ellis started looking around for where he had left his phone. “I need to call Angelo. I don’t know what his people are doing, but they’re digging a hole for us.”
Christine let her head fall back, as if she were examining the ceiling. “We need to be more proactive.”
Ellis found the device and started dialing. “Not sure what else we can do. We’ve got a skilled investigator on the case.”
“Who doesn’t seem to be getting the job done.”
The phone rang three times before Lira answered. “I was just about to call you. Nora’s got a request from the Wall Street Journal for a big piece in their technology section.”
“Okay, but—”
“And they want Melissa there. For a photo shoot.”
“Well that can’t happen. Obviously.”
“What’s going on?” Christine asked, grabbing Ellis’s arm.
Ellis moved the phone away from his mouth. “Wall Street Journal. Wants to do a story and photo shoot. With Melissa.”
“Sonofabitch. The Journal?” She balled a fist. “That would be huge.”
“I put her off,” Lira said, “but I just wanted you to know. I told Nora to see if they can do it without Melissa, but—”
“We’ve got a bigger problem,” Ellis said. “FBI was just here asking about her.”
Lira groaned. “So they know.”
“They know.”
“How’d they find out?”
“Wouldn’t say,” Ellis said. “But—”
“Had to be the au pair.”
“Isn’t Giselle on the way back to Germany?”
“Ten o’clock flight,” Lira said. “Driver’s supposed to pick her up very soon. He should be on his way to your house. Is Giselle there?”
“No. Jennifer hasn’t seen her.”
“Doesn’t matter. At this point, she’s a nonissue. Now that the FBI knows, there’s nothing she can do to hurt us.”
“I gave the FBI her phone number,” Christine said. “You deactivated her cell, right?”
“I took care of it,” Lira said. “Vacation mode suspension. I didn’t cancel the line because I didn’t want it to look suspicious. They check, it’ll match what you told them. She’s traveling abroad, suspending service while she’s gone.”
“But what about the FBI? Christine and I are worried about—”
“Yeah. I’ll talk with Bill Tait, see what can be done. But he warned me that these things can take time. As much as we don’t want to admit it, if someone doesn’t want to be found—and it looks like Robbins knows what she’s doing—it might take longer.”
Ellis rubbed his forehead with a clammy right hand. “Keep us posted.”
“I know this is tough,” Lira said. “But you and Christine have to hold it together. Keep focused on the prize. Leave the issue of finding Melissa to me.”
45
Amy stood in the corner of the emergency department’s treatment room 4 watching as the physician completed his examination.
She had been placed on a gurney and wheeled into an area and examined. Dehydration and acute stress reaction were diagnosed, and intravenous fluids were administered. Her right eye was twitching nonstop and made her self-conscious.
After consulting with one of the doctors, the nurse unhooked Amy. “You need to fill out the patient intake form,” she said, giving her a clipboard with paperwork to complete.
“I’m so embarrassed,” Amy said. “Sorry to put you through all that trouble.”
“That’s what we’re here for. C’mon, I’ll take you to your daughter.”
When they walked in, the doctor was refastening Melissa’s neck brace. “Okay Rhonda. Let’s get a CT of the head and neck to rule out subdural hematoma or subarachnoid hemorrhage.”
“No MRI?” Rhonda asked.
“With a five-year-old? She’d have to remain completely still for forty-five minutes.”
“We can sedate her.”
The doctor made a note in the chart. “I’m not going to sedate a child with a head injury.”
Rhonda nodded. “And we need to monitor sleepiness.”
“Exactly.”
Amy was watching the back-and-forth like a patron watches a tennis match. “Is she going to be okay?”
The physician faced Amy, whose hands were shaking. She crossed them over her chest to steady them.
“I’m Dr. West. Your daughter’s very lucky. If she’d fallen on the back of her head, she would’ve fractured her skull because there isn’t much soft tissue there to abso
rb the impact. A fall on the face is better, so to speak, but it risks damage to the teeth or nose. Fractures or chips. Somehow, other than a forehead laceration, which will require stitches, she lucked out there, too. But the loss of consciousness indicates she’s suffered a concussion and what I suspect is a hematoma on the top of her forehead, near the point of impact.”
“Hematoma? A tumor?”
“No, nothing like that. Just some blood accumulating where she struck her head. Looks like it was a pretty bad fall. How’d it happen?”
“We were at the farmers market and a man grabbed her and ran and someone tried to tackle him and—” Amy’s voice caught— “she flew out of his arms. I—I was frozen, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.” She wiped her wet right cheek on her sleeve.
“We need to check with Child Protective Services,” Rhonda said.
“Child—” Amy swallowed deeply. “Why?”
“Any time a child comes in with this kind of trauma, we’re—”
“There’s a police officer right outside, in the—in the waiting room. You can—you can talk with him. There were a ton of witnesses, not to mention the guy who tackled the kidnapper. Child Protective Services? Don’t take my daughter from me, please. Don’t traumatize her more than she’s already been traumatized.”
West placed a hand on Amy’s left shoulder. “We’ll confirm with the police. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Don’t worry, she’s in good hands. We’ll take special care of her. Okay?”
Amy managed a nod.
Rhonda unlocked the gurney and wheeled Melissa, with an assistant, out of the treatment room.
“We’re going to run some tests,” West said. “Once we have all that information, I’ll have a better idea of what we need to do for her.”
“When can we leave?”
“Well,” West said with a lift of his brow. “That depends on the test results. Let’s wait and see. Meantime, have a seat in the waiting room and I’ll come get you once I’ve had a chance to look over her test results.”
“Can I stay with her?”
“When she’s in the scanner, you have to be in a separate area. So there’s really no point. It’ll be an hour at most, maybe less. And Nurse Rhonda has a little girl of her own. Your daughter’s in good hands.”
“And safe? That man, the one who tried to kidnap her, he’s still out there.”
“He won’t be able to get past security into the emergency department. But I’ll have someone ask them to be extra careful.”
Amy nodded. She had pushed as hard as she could—but there was no point in creating a scene. However, she was not ready to talk with the officer. She had to get her story straight, find a way to prevent the police from checking her information until she could get out of town.
Rather than going back to the waiting room, where the cop was likely pacing, ready to question her, she went to the restroom…to hide. And think.
46
Loren sat at her desk, leaning back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. How could she not help her sister-in-law? How could she face Zach if he found out she knew what his sister had done and she said nothing to him? He would not buy the “need to know” bullshit the Bureau was famous for tossing around—sometimes warranted, other times used as a dodge when convenient.
She rocked forward and set her forearms on the file splayed out in front of her.
“You okay?”
She swung her gaze to the left, where Tran Minh had just returned to his desk. “Just thinking. Tough case.”
“Got one of those myself.”
“I’m gonna get some fresh air. Clear my head.”
Loren waited until she cleared the building before she dug out her cell phone.
Zach answered on the third ring. “Uh-oh. You never call during the day. Everything okay?”
Not even close.
“Have you talked to Amy?”
“Not in a few days. Why?”
“Run over to the drug store and try calling her. Let me know if you get through.”
“Drug store. Why—”
“Use the pay phone there. It’s in the back by the bathrooms. Don’t say anything to her about anything. Just call like you’re checking in. Usual stuff. And don’t tell anyone we’re discussing this.”
“I’m not sure what we’re discussing. What’s going on?”
“Just do it and call me back. If she doesn’t answer, leave a voice mail that you wanted to touch base because you haven’t heard from her in a while.”
“Okay, but—”
“Don’t tell her I asked you to call or that I’m worried about her. Or that you’re calling from a public phone.”
“You’re obviously worried about her. Just tell me—”
“I can’t. And I’m outside and it’s cold and I don’t have my coat, so hurry.”
Loren had never smoked, but as she stood there, her emotions were all over the place—anger, sadness, confusion, fear—and made her fidgety. Holding something in her hand and sucking on it would be comforting. She laughed at the sexual innuendo and realized it calmed her nerves—for a moment.
Her phone buzzed seven minutes later. Loren nearly dropped it while fumbling to answer it with chilled fingers.
“No answer, Lor. I left the message you told me to leave. Now you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Hang out for another twenty minutes or so, then try her one more time.”
“Wait. Lor—”
Loren hung up and closed her eyes. Amy, what the hell are you doing?
She paced, walking along Webster Street, the gloomy, darkening city doing nothing to lift her spirits.
What am I getting myself into?
She ran through the scenarios in her mind, trying to reason it out. But there was no good solution. For now, until she could get in touch with Amy, she could not make any assumptions as to what happened, why, or how. It sure sounded like her sister-in-law abducted a child. But Amy was a bright woman…troubled, yes…but could that really explain why she would do something like this?
Loren felt she knew the answer, though she was not a mental health professional—and she had very few facts. That the ones she did have were damning did not mean anything. It told her she had to get to the bottom of what was going on. Amass all the information and then she would know the motivation—and be able to assess whether a crime was committed.
Loren stopped, looked up at the multistory building to her left. A crime had been committed. That much she knew, regardless of what she could glean going forward. Denying that would get her nowhere.
She continued walking to Lakeshore Avenue, where she witnessed two men making a drug handoff—and thought of looking the other way. This was not uncommon on Oakland streets, but if she collared the guys it would consume the rest of the evening, prevent her from helping Amy, and solve nothing. She looked the one doing the selling in the eyes and said, “Drugs kill. They destroy lives. You wanna make a living? Get a goddam job.”
The man flipped his head back, scattering the long dreadlocks onto his back. “Who the f—”
“This is who.” Loren moved her sweater top aside and revealed her badge. Then she pushed past him and stopped by an electronics shop three blocks away where she paid cash for a burner phone with a clean SIM card that was not traceable to her.
As she turned it on—and saw it was partially charged—she shook her head at the irony of admonishing a drug dealer on engaging in illegal activity when she, a federal agent, was preparing to do the same.
47
Keller stepped into room 3 as a doctor and nurse swung their gaze toward him. Lying on the bed was a gray-haired woman. Keller opened his eyes wide in mock surprise, apologized, and backed out.
He stood outside number 4, hand on the knob. Please let this be Melissa’s room.
He pushed the do
or open—and saw a father comforting a young teenager for what looked like a fractured leg.
Room 5 had a girl around Melissa’s age—but brunette and clearly not her.
Keller continued on down the hall, checking one room after another…and coming up empty.
He cursed under his breath. Had Melissa been moved to another department for X-rays? Had she been released already? Could she have been processed and sent on her way that quickly? If they didn’t need to run any tests, it was possible. But judging how she looked lying on the pavement, he was sure they would have done a precautionary diagnostic workup.
He returned to the break room and considered additional options: she could have suffered a fatal injury from the fall—in which case she would be on the way to a morgue somewhere. She could have sustained a head injury or skull fracture—not surprising given the way she landed—that necessitated immediate emergency surgery.
Or he could have gone to the wrong hospital.
The brunette in room 5 could have been the girl he was told about when he called and spoke with the emergency department coordinator.
He leaned his buttocks against the counter and tried to reason a way forward. Robbins would likely not use her, or Melissa’s, real name, as that could be tracked. If there was a law enforcement alert issued, she would be located easily—and quickly.
Keller pulled off the scrub top and put his own shirt back on, then fingered the badge in his pocket. He could seek out the administrator and ask if another young girl was brought in following an accident downtown.
But the police responded to the scene at the farmers market—so they would have arrived at the hospital around the same time as the ambulance. And they would have sought out the mother for questioning. Even faced with the threat of discovery, Robbins would not have abandoned the girl she believed was her daughter, the one for whom she had risked everything.
Yet there were no police officers here.
Keller left the badge in his pocket and headed for the exit. He needed to find the right hospital—because he likely did not have time to guess wrong twice.
The Lost Girl (A Mickey Keller Thriller Book 1) Page 18
