The Lost Girl (A Mickey Keller Thriller Book 1)

by Alan Jacobson

  Amy had every intention of paying the bill—somehow. Melissa was, after all, her biological daughter. How she paid it, and when, would have to wait for another time. Right now, she had to get out of there.

  “And I am going to call Officer Nicholson. Have a seat in the waiting room until I can reach him.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “Through those double doors,” Barbara said with a nod to her left.

  Amy gave Melissa’s hand a gentle squeeze and they started walking down the hallway.

  “What did that lady want?”

  “She wants me to pay the bill.”

  “But you don’t want to?”

  “I do want to, because it’s the right thing to do. But…it’s complicated. I’ll have to send them money later.”

  “My daddy can pay. Call him.”

  “Great idea, sweetie. I’ll take care of it. No worries.”

  They entered the waiting room, where a large security guard was standing.

  “Barbara told me to make sure you had a seat over there.”

  Of course she did. “Great. Thanks.” Only it wasn’t great. Given what Loren had told her, any interaction with law enforcement was fraught with danger, as they would have been notified that there’s a woman and a kidnapped girl somewhere in the area. And she happened to be the woman they would be looking for.

  Amy stood up and held out her hands. Melissa extended her arms and Amy lifted her against her body.

  “Okay, honey, we’re going to leave.”

  “But the man said to wait.”

  “He did, you’re right. But he doesn’t know what’s best for us. I do.”

  Amy paced back and forth, then waited until someone asked the security guard a question. He turned—and Amy walked out the sliding doors. She immediately hung a right and walked along the building’s exterior. A surveillance camera was mounted on a light post to her left, and another to the side of the brick facing just above her head.

  Amy needed to get out of range of their lenses. She stepped off the sidewalk and into the lot, squeezing between the parked vehicles.

  Her heart was slamming against her chest wall, her breathing getting labored—from both stress and the work of carrying Melissa.

  “Where we going?”

  “Not sure,” Amy said between gasps. “To find us a ride…back to our room…I guess.”

  Wilton Road, the street that bordered the hospital, was just ahead. Can I make it before the guard realizes I left?

  Loren found an opening in the bushes planted along the property line and turned right along the sidewalk. Vehicles zipped past them, headed north and south. She turned and faced the latter, shifted Melissa onto her hip, and held out her right thumb.

  Several cars later, a man in his early twenties slowed and pulled to the curb. He rolled down the window and craned his neck to make eye contact. “You need a ride?”

  “I do, my SUV broke down and I need to get back to our motel. It’s only a few miles. The Sands.”

  “Yeah, no problem. I know the place.”

  Amy pulled open the back door and helped Melissa inside the Hyundai. She buckled the belt and pulled it tight.

  Amy breathed a sigh of relief—yet she could not help but think that more danger awaited.

  67

  Keller spent the night in his Lincoln camped out in the emergency department parking lot, leaning on his years doing surveillance as a detective and, before that, lying in the muck in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, as a member of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, colloquially known as Delta Force.

  Compared to that, sitting in a luxury vehicle with climate control and heated leather seats was nothing to complain about.

  He perked up when he saw a woman who looked like Amy Robbins holding a girl who appeared to be Melissa Ellis walk out the sliding doors. He started the engine and headed toward that area of the lot, but he had to be careful: he was now in range of the security cameras.

  He drove to where he had seen them—but they were no longer there. He rubbernecked and caught a glimpse of Robbins’s blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders as she navigated the spaces between the cars.

  Keller accelerated and swerved down an aisle of parked vehicles, but as he neared he saw them squeeze through a line of low-trimmed hedges.

  “Shit.”

  He thought of getting out of the Lincoln and pursuing them on foot, but what was he going to do when he grabbed Melissa? Run away again? That did not work out so well the first time.

  He sped toward the exit of the lot, braking hard to avoid an elderly couple shuffling through the aisle with tennis-ball tipped walkers. Keller glanced in his rearview mirror, then over his shoulder, attempting to locate Robbins.

  As soon as speedy Martha and spry Ed cleared the way, Keller hung a right onto Wilton.

  68

  Keller scanned the road—but did not see Robbins or Melissa. He slowed and looked in the rearview mirror, then glanced left and right. Nowhere to be seen.

  But that was impossible. They did not have their car here and they were on foot—which meant, in the absence of taxis, they took an Uber or Lyft…or hitchhiked. In a college town, an attractive young woman with a little girl would not have difficulty getting a ride.

  Keller pulled out his sat phone and called Martinez. “You see any activity on Robbins? Cell phone?”

  “Hang on a second.” A moment later, he returned to the call. “Nothing. And no electronic transactions on credit or debit.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Lose her again?”

  “All’s good.” Asshole.

  He hung up and headed to the one place he knew she might go—her motel.

  When he arrived at the Sands, he backed into the spot, affording him a view of their door. He no longer could wear his disguise, so he was now at greater risk.

  He checked his watch, then reached behind the passenger seat and extracted a black nylon 5.11 messenger bag. Nestled inside the concealed quick-draw compartment was a suppressor that he could attach to his Glock—and a .22 Ruger. He chose the compact pistol because it was small and quiet and efficient if you wanted to dispose of someone at close range. It was also clean—unregistered—with the serial numbers ground down to the base metal.

  His plan was to grab Melissa, inject her, and then dispose of Robbins. He would put the do not disturb sign on the doorknob, then call in a Tait cleaning crew to efficiently dispose of the body and scrub the room of blood and forensics.

  Although he did not want to kill Robbins—for a plethora of reasons—doing so would make it feasible to retrieve Melissa here. With Robbins out of the way and Melissa drugged, his egress would be quiet and uneventful. No drama.

  Just guilt. The guilt would have to be reconciled later. Right now, he needed laser-like focus on the mission.

  Efficiency, not emotion.

  Keller checked the Ruger and got out. He casually glanced around as he crossed the parking lot and strode to the door. There was a peephole lens, so he could not knock and impersonate motel staff unless he kept his head down and hoped she did not recognize him. She had only seen him once, under extreme duress.

  Years ago he had taken a one-day LAPD course on witness and victim memory retention during bank robberies and other violent events. In such situations, people generally had poor recollection because their visual fields narrowed and their body produced a flood of hormones—glucocorticoids—that calmed them so they could function. But these chemicals also destroyed neurons in the brain, affecting their ability to store the incident in long-term memory. Their emotional output was more completely retained than the facts of the occurrence.

  Keller was hoping that would be the case here.

  He dropped his chin to his chest and knocked on the door. “Assistant manager. Please open up.�
��

  Nothing. He waited a few seconds, then rapped on the painted surface again. “Open up. Assistant manager.”

  He glanced left and right. No one was nearby. A maid was across the way, about forty yards from where he was standing. She was busy with her cart and did not appear to be paying attention to what he was doing.

  Keller waited another fifteen seconds then tried to get a look inside through the curtained window. The room appeared to be dark.

  To keep from arousing suspicion, he walked back to his vehicle, cursing silently, concerned that Robbins would not be returning to the motel. He closed the door, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  Patience. Tough to master but vital to practice.

  69

  Amy turned in her seat to face the young man. “You a student at the university?”

  “Cal Poly. Yeah. Engineering.”

  “Good field.”

  “Thought about pre-law, but my dad talked me out of it.”

  “Your dad sounds like a wise man. I’m Amy.” She immediately realized she had used her real name.

  “Brad.”

  “Hey, Brad—would you mind making a detour? I have to get over to a shop in Diablo Canyon.”

  Brad scrunched his face. “Not a great neighborhood.”

  “I know. I figured it’d be okay during the day.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. Probably true. What’s there?”

  “Pawnshop.”

  Brad eyed her, then swung his gaze back to the road. “Buying or selling?”

  “Selling. I need the money.”

  He stole a look at the clock on the Jeep’s dash, then said, “I’ve got a class in forty minutes, but I can drop you off and head back. It’ll be close, but I should be able to make it.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “And what’s your name?” he asked, looking in the rearview mirror.

  “Melissa.”

  “You look like you took quite a fall.”

  “She did,” Amy said, jumping in. She had no idea what Melissa would say about who Amy was, and why she was hundreds of miles from home. “We had an altercation downtown and—well, she got banged up pretty good.”

  “Cool mask.”

  Amy turned and glanced at Melissa.

  “Thank you,” the girl said.

  Brad got on the freeway and Amy engaged him in a discussion of his coursework and fraternity life. About twelve minutes later, he exited the freeway.

  “Never been to a pawnshop,” Brad said.

  Amy chuckled. “Me either. Don’t quite know what to expect.”

  “You have a way to get home? I don’t feel real good about just leaving you here.”

  “We’ll figure something out. Call a cab or something.”

  “Uber?”

  “Or Uber,” Amy said with a laugh.

  “I’ll wait as long as I can.”

  “I don’t want you to miss your class.”

  “It’s a test, actually.”

  “Then I definitely don’t want you to be late. I’ll be as fast as I can. But if you need to leave, just go.”

  “You sure?”

  “You’re a nice young man, Brad. I appreciate you looking out for us—and for giving us the ride. Yes, absolutely. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

  He pulled up in front of the building that housed Diablo Pawn & Loan and craned his neck to take in the barred windows above the store. “I’ll hang out here as long as I can.”

  “If we’re not back in time, good luck on your test.” She gave him a smile, then got out and helped Melissa from her seat belt.

  Amy pulled on the shop’s door—it was locked—and then a buzzer sounded followed by a metallic click. She gave it another try and it swung open. She ushered Melissa in first and made her way past aisles of stuff—knickknacks, decorative antiques, small kitchen appliances. A wall of flat panel televisions, Zippo lighters, acoustic and electric guitars, fishing tackle boxes, lawnmowers…and locked display cases of jewelry.

  But the signs caught her attention:

  $ We Pay $Cash for Gold $

  No Cash Refunds

  Smile Shoplifters You’re on Camera

  If You Don’t Buy It Today, It May Not Be Here Tomorrow

  Buy A Gun, Commit A Crime, & You’re Done

  Melissa squeezed Amy’s hand. “Why are we here?”

  Amy drew Melissa close, an unconscious desire to shield her. “I need some money, so I’m going to see if this store will buy something from me.”

  “That’s silly. Stores are where we buy things. Not sell things.”

  For a fleeting moment, Amy grinned. But a door opened and a man with greasy, slicked back hair and wearing a pair of soiled canvas cargo pants stepped out of the back room.

  “Hep ya?”

  Amy cleared her throat and started twisting the ring on her finger. “Yes. Yes, um, I need to, um, pawn this.” She had taken it after they had returned to her apartment, figuring a married woman with a girl would attract less scrutiny if the police were looking for her—or she might amass less attention from potential witnesses who saw her in passing. It was a silly assumption, but people were funny that way. Sometimes small details made a big difference.

  He gestured at her left hand and he held out his right. “Lemme see.”

  The thought of this guy touching her was not particularly appetizing, so Amy slipped the band off her finger and hesitated before giving it to him. This was her last tangible connection to Dan. And she was in a sleazy central California neighborhood selling it to a pawnshop. What the hell am I doing?

  Then she realized that Melissa might be the most important thing she had left of Dan. A living, breathing part of him. His daughter. That mattered so much more than an inanimate object, regardless of how symbolic and filled with memories the ring was.

  “I’m Buck,” the man said as he pulled a jeweler’s magnifying lens over his head and examined the ring. “Hmm. You Amy?”

  Amy swallowed hard. She had forgotten about the inscription on the inside of the band. “Yes.”

  “Original owner.”

  “Yes.”

  “Got any papers with this? Insurance appraisal? Purchase receipt?”

  “I—no, I didn’t think to bring them. I should’ve.”

  “Woulda helped.” He swung his head over his left shoulder. “Yo. Charlie. Git up here a minute.”

  The back door opened again and Charlie, a man fifteen years Buck’s senior with a mane of wiry silver hair, emerged.

  “Need an appraisal.” He handed over the jeweler’s loupe and Charlie took the ring over to a work area on the shelf behind the countertop.

  Amy kept her eyes on Charlie. She had no reason to distrust him, but at the moment that single piece of jewelry represented everything of value she had. She needed the money.

  “What’s a—a—praisin?” Melissa asked.

  “When someone figures out how much something is worth,” Amy said absentmindedly while turning and looking out the front door, where she could make out the front bumper and fender of Brad’s car. “Any chance we can speed this up a bit?”

  “Nope,” Buck said. “Tell me. You lookin’ to hock it or sell it?”

  “I want it back. It’s—” Amy stopped, not wanting to say too much in front of Melissa. She had told Giselle that she was not married, and she did not know if Melissa had been listening. But Amy did not want to get caught in a lie. Everything with Melissa was based on trust. “It’s got a lot of sentimental value.”

  Buck nodded as if he empathized with her. But she was under no illusions. He was a businessman looking to make money off her. And if he put cash in her hand right now, she would be fine with that.

  Charlie came over and said, “It’s real. Had to estimate the weight based on di
ameter and depth. I’d say it’s one and a half carats, VS1 clarity, excellent cut, round brilliant. Color’s an F. And a 14-karat gold setting. Needs a cleanin’, but good condition.”

  Buck stepped back and lowered his ear to Charlie, who made a few comments. Buck turned back to Amy and handed her the ring. “I can give you five thousand. Twelve percent interest. If you ain’t claimed it in ninety days, I’m gonna sell it.”

  Amy swallowed. She needed the money but did not want to part with the keepsake. And three months…who knew where she would be then. Zach could come and claim it, pay the loan and the interest. He would do that for her.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. I’m gonna write us up a contract.” Buck reached for a pad of pages filled top to bottom with fine print and filled in a few numbers. He took a photo of the ring in Amy’s hand and slid the paperwork over to her for her signature.

  Given her training, Amy had never signed anything during her adult life without first having read it. Until now. She grabbed the pen and swirled her name as the front door buzzer sounded.

  Amy and Melissa swung their gazes behind them.

  In walked four men. Their arms were covered in tattoos and they were dressed in loose fitting jeans and sleeveless T-shirts.

  “Boys,” Buck said. “How you doin’ today?”

  “Not too good,” one of them answered.

  Amy drew Melissa against her and handed the contract to Buck. “Here you go.”

  “Gimme a minute boys,” Buck said. He scooped up the papers and nodded to Amy. “Be right back.”

  The four men spread out inside the store, each going down a different aisle and lingering. Amy glanced up at the large convex surveillance mirrors to see what they were doing.

  “Here ya go,” Buck said. He held out his hand and Amy gave him the ring. Buck gave her a copy of the agreement and then opened a small metal strongbox. He asked how she wanted the cash.

  Amy cringed and glanced up at the reflection of the men. “Twenties,” she said in a low voice.

  “That’s gonna be a real thick wad,” Buck said, not doing anything to mask his volume. “Two hundred fifty twenties. Not sure I have that many here.”