Where the Lost Girls Go

by R. J. Noonan

  But I had trouble believing that the car belonged to Kent Jameson, the successful novelist who was probably Sunrise Lake’s greatest benefactor. It seemed too big to comprehend any tragic thing happening to a celebrity. I ran the number again and came up with the same result. No matter how much you poke it and prod it, the truth keeps staring right back at you.

  My mind immediately skipped to the identity of the woman who’d been driving Kent Jameson’s car. Was it his wife, Martha, the woman who’d helped Jameson pick up the pieces of his life after his first wife had left him? Or his daughter . . . just a teenager? I wasn’t sure the daughter was even old enough to have a driver’s license. In the last photo I’d seen of her, she’d been a tiny waif, hugging Snow White at Disneyland.

  I mulled this over as I headed back to the wreck, where Randy was talking with Cranston and our lieutenant, Charlie Omak. “Did you finish the report?” Cranston asked. Probably eager to end his shift and be on his way to Hawaii.

  “I’ll finish it later. We have a notification to make.” I turned to Lt. Omak. “The car is registered to Kent Jameson.”

  “The famous writer?” Randy asked, scooping off his helmet.

  “No shit.” Cranston grinned. “Big shot like that? So who’s the dead woman?”

  The lieutenant had more skill at containing his reaction. “We still don’t have a confirmed ID on the driver, and let’s not go off half-cocked before we do some detective work. I spoke to Hernandez at the morgue, and the body is too far gone for a visual identification.”

  I wasn’t sure where to go with this. “So we talk to Jameson and ask who was driving his car?”

  “No.” Cranston scowled. “We go to Jameson and make the notification. He’ll know who was driving his car.”

  “That’s assuming a lot.” I turned to the lieutenant. “We can’t make a death notification if we don’t have a confirmed ID.”

  “You’re right, Mori. Our first priority is identification. We’ll talk to Jameson, but we need to tread lightly.”

  “I’ll bet it was his wife,” Cranston said. “I’ll tell you, bad things happen to nice people, and she was good people. Picked herself up from nothing, you know? And after she met the author, she didn’t let that money go to her head. Always chatting you up and smiling when you see her around town.”

  “Or his daughter.” Randy widened his stance, his bunker coat falling open to reveal a black T-shirt under his suspenders. His T-shirts used to smell like Downy. April Fresh. “My little sister knows Lucy Jameson. They used to be friends.”

  “Sonia? How old is she now?”

  “Eighteen, in her senior year. She hung out with Jameson’s daughter back when Lucy went to Sunrise High. Before she switched to homeschooling. Lucy is a good kid.”

  Usually when someone said this, the implication was that the “good kid” had a few problems that occasionally knocked them off course. I didn’t know this for sure about Lucy Jameson, but I’d read that she had left two boarding schools before landing here in Sunrise. Rumor had it that the purchase of the ranch and the addition of alpacas was all done to please little Lucy. It was hard to say whether her “spoiled brat” reputation was deserved.

  “We can’t spend all night standing here speculating.” Omak snapped us back to the task at hand. “Cranston, you stay here with our crime scene until Highway comes. Once they’re done, you’ll need to inventory the vehicle. Get it towed to the county lot in case we need it for evidence later. Mori, you come with me. The Jameson compound isn’t far from here.”

  I tucked my notebook into the pocket of my coat and gave Randy a nod.

  “But, Lou, I’ve got seniority here,” Cranston said, using the casual term “Lou,” which was not Omak’s first name as I’d once thought but short for “lieutenant.” He wanted the case; he wanted the privilege of dealing with the town celebrity.

  “You’re going on vacation,” Omak said.

  “Yeah, but . . . we can postpone that.”

  “Take your vacation.” One corner of Omak’s mouth lifted in a slight grin. “You’re going to Hawaii, man. You’ll be sipping out of a coconut while we’re knocking on doors.”

  Cranston mumbled some response, but it was little more than the rumble of an old furnace.

  I had to bite my lower lip to keep a straight face as I followed the lieutenant to the supervisor’s vehicle. As we approached the Jeep, he tossed the keys to me. “I’ll navigate. I’ve been out to their place, and once you turn off the main road, nothing is marked.”

  “Yes, sir.” For the first mile we drove in silence as I wondered if I should try to make conversation with the lieutenant, who had joined Sunrise Lake fairly recently but had years of experience as a cop in Seattle. Former military and part Native American, Omak was rigid and a little scary because he seemed incredibly perfect.

  “This is the part of the job I dread,” he said, breaking the ice, “breaking bad news to people.”

  “It’s sad,” I agreed. I wondered if it would be even more awkward because Jameson was a famous author. He’d always struck me as a hardworking man who’d run into a stretch of luck and shared the proceeds. Jameson gifts were evident throughout town in facilities like parks and fire stations and programs like after-school tutoring and an endowment for Sunrise Lake’s community theater. Trees and sculptures, scholarships and road funds—great things had come to Sunrise Lake through the generosity of Kent Jameson. And from his wife; from the outside, she appeared to be the backbone of his philanthropic campaign.

  Dread was a sour taste in the back of my throat as Omak guided me through the dark, telling me when to turn and which fork to take. He seemed to like my slow, cautious driving style. Bon voyage, Cranston.

  “So you’ve been to the compound,” I said. “For business or pleasure?”

  “Answering a nine-one-one call. The chief wants a supervisor responding to the Jamesons. Apparently it’s been the protocol since Jameson started having trouble with the ex-wife a few years back.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Domestic dispute with the ex, Candy, who used to come to town to visit the daughter. This was before my time, but I hear she was the dramatic type. Moved down to LA. Thought she was going to be a Hollywood star, riding on the coattails of her husband’s success.”

  “And that didn’t work out?” I wasn’t up on my Kent Jameson celebrity trivia.

  “She got a few small parts but never landed a big role.”

  “Is she still living in Los Angeles?”

  “She died in LA. Three years ago. Suicide. Didn’t you catch that on the news?”

  “It sounds familiar.” I nodded as if this were normal when, in fact, this was proving to be the most gripping night of my career. “And what were the other calls to the Jameson ranch? Problems with the new wife?”

  “The daughter,” he said. “Always the daughter. Lucy Jameson, seventeen. The kid’s got issues, but that’s no surprise. Dead mother and famous father, it’s a difficult combination.”

  “So just to be clear, we’re treating this like a possible homicide?”

  “Right. Any unexplained death gets investigated until we find out otherwise. Only this one is a little delicate, since we don’t have an ID on the body, and we’re going to be dealing with the town’s biggest benefactor. I’ve notified the chief, and he said to make this a priority. The coroner’s already at the morgue, and we’ve got forensics coming in for overtime.”

  Of course I was going to treat my first and only case as a number one priority. As for the special “priority” treatment because Jameson was a celebrity, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that. For now, I would just be grateful to have total support from everyone in the department.

  “And to be fair, I have to tell you that the chief doesn’t want you on this case.”

  “Because I’m a rookie.”

  “That and the fact that the department has informally assigned two cops to cover the Jameson ranch. Officers Ward Brown and Esme
Garcia got that plum assignment a few years back.”

  “Is that why they don’t handle nine-one-one calls?”

  “Apparently. If you ask me, it smacks of favoritism. If the Jamesons want armed guards, they need to hire them on their own payroll.”

  We passed a sign that read, “Slow! Alpacas Ahead,” with a silhouette of a four-legged animal with a high gait and tall ears.

  “What do you know about alpacas?” I asked. “Aren’t they a lot like llamas?”

  “They’re a slightly different breed. Llamas are bigger and used as pack animals. Alpacas can be worth a lot because of their fleece,” Omak said. “Once you get set up, it doesn’t take much to raise them. Says my cousin. He’s got half a dozen on his land near Bend. He wanted just one, but apparently they’re herd animals. They need buddies. The wife made him buy a bunch more.”

  “So they live as families?” I asked, liking the notion.

  “Herds. From what I can tell, they’re like glorified goats. Only alpacas grow into fluff balls.” We were at least a mile in when the headlights flashed on a carved wooden sign that said, “Jameson Homestead.”

  “This is the beginning of the ranch,” Omak said. “The main house will be up ahead to the left, with a slew of outbuildings off to the right in a horseshoe shape.”

  We pulled up to a mall of trees that lead to a mighty Craftsman-style lodge with a stone façade that intermingled with cedar siding halfway up the two-story building. Limestone and dark wood were subtly lit by those muted LED lights that face down to avoid obscuring the stars in the night sky. The mansion faced a stand of tall fir trees and a half circle of buildings that looked peaceful and inviting, a charming minivillage.

  “He’s got his office over there.” Omak nodded toward the buildings opposite the mansion. “The wife has an office, too. And a bunch of guest houses, a game house, an indoor pool, and a couple garages. He’s got a small collection of classic cars.”

  “Now with one less car,” I said as I pulled up to the big house and looked at the clock on the dash. Nearly eleven. Most Oregonians had lights out by this time so that they could be up before dawn, running or power-walking or grabbing a cup at a local coffee shop. “I wonder if they’re still up.”

  “If not, they will be soon.”

  We spent a few minutes ringing the bell and knocking before a light went on in the wide entryway. There was a flurry of motion in the sidelight, then the craftsman cedar door swung open to reveal a petite woman wrapped in a glamorous satin robe.

  I recognized Jameson’s wife, Martha. Her blonde hair was a perfect bob that wrapped behind her ears and curved in at chin level, accenting bold cheekbones and sumptuous lips. With a coif like that and perfect makeup, she had to have been awake before we started knocking. “Officers?” She held the fat bronze doorknob, sniffing the air. “Is there a problem?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Jameson”—Lt. Omak could play it cool and compassionate at the same time—“but there’s been a crash involving one of the vehicles registered to your husband. A Karmann Ghia.”

  “Oh, no. Really?” She winced as she gathered the lapels of her robe closer. “Who was driving?”

  “We’re hoping you can help us identify the driver.” The lieutenant tipped his head to the side. “Is your husband home?”

  “Kent. Yes. Yes, he’s in his office, but I’ll get him.” She removed a bejeweled cell phone from the robe’s pocket and typed in a text message. “I’m sorry but . . . I’m just not thinking straight.” She held the phone to her chest and stared at us pensively. “I’m afraid to ask. The driver.” She shook her head. “The driver’s unconscious?”

  “Do you mind if we come in?” Omak asked, distracting Martha Jameson for the moment.

  “Of course. Please.” The door swung open. “Lieutenant, I know we’ve met before, but—”

  “Lt. Charlie Omak, and this is Officer Laura Mori.”

  She barely seemed to register our names as we streamed into the wide entryway that led to a great room with a stone fireplace meandering up three stories. It reminded me of the lobby of a western-themed hotel at Disneyland. Pretty spectacular. “It’s chilly in here,” she said, hugging herself.

  She clicked on the fire with a remote, and tall flames began to lick at the gold-and-red-speckled stone. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she read the message. “He’s on his way.”

  Omak nodded. “Could I trouble you for some water?”

  Martha touched her hair, as if the request was inconvenient. “Of course.” She trudged off beyond a sparkly quartz bar to a shadowed room with dark wood cabinets.

  “Take a seat.” The lieutenant’s voice was a low command. “Follow my lead. This is going to be hard on them.”

  I helped myself to a fat chair in a warm shade of dark pumpkin and let the cushions embrace me. The leather was cool but soft under my palms, which I tucked under my thighs. I was out of my league, in more ways than one. Good thing that the lieutenant had come along instead of Cranston.

  The front door clicked open just as Martha Jameson returned with a tumbler of water, her silken robe shimmering in the firelight. The door slammed as quick footsteps approached.

  “What the hell?” Kent Jameson strode over to us. Wild-eyed and frantic, he raked his hands back through his already crazy mane of hair. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “It’s about your car.” Martha’s lower lip contorted, but she clenched them together, handing the glass to Omak. “The Ghia.”

  “Please, have a seat.” The lieutenant introduced us as Kent fell back in the chair across from me and his wife perched on the fat arm, her hand on his shoulder. His words scattered away like dried leaves until he got to the bad news. “There’s been an accident involving your car. A single-car crash on Stafford Road. Paramedics tried to revive the driver, but unfortunately, they were unsuccessful. The only occupant of the car was a female driver, but we haven’t been able to identify her. We didn’t find any ID on her, and she was badly burned. The body is too far gone to make a visual identification.”

  “Female.” Tears shone in Martha’s eyes as her chin dropped down toward her husband. “Lucy?”

  “Oh, no. No. It can’t be. She stormed off to her room. Remember?” Kent pointed toward the dark hallway.

  “What time was that?” I asked.

  Kent shrugged. “Around seven thirty.”

  “Closer to seven,” Martha corrected. “I caught most of Jeopardy after she had her little meltdown.”

  And less than an hour after Lucy stormed out, the crash had been reported just miles away at 19:45. Lucy would have had a few minutes to stew. Or maybe a full-on rage had propelled her to take off in the car.

  “Have you seen her since dinner?” Omak asked.

  “No, but she’s asleep in her room.”

  I rose. “Do you mind if I check?”

  “I’ll go. I wouldn’t want you to startle her.” Jameson was on his feet, striding down the hall.

  I hurried behind him, expectant, holding my breath, as Martha and Omak followed. The image of the earlier fireball made me a little nauseous. For Jameson’s sake, I hoped his daughter was behind that door.

  “Lucy?” Kent knocked on the door and cracked it open. “Honey, are you asleep?” The light flicked on, revealing two twin beds. My gaze shot to the one with the twisted lump in the center. Lucy? No, just a comforter bunched and tousled. The opposite bed was neatly made, the lacey design of its purple, mauve, and white comforter nearly covered by stuffed animals. Teddy bears, turtles, llamas, and puffy dogs. Posters of heart-shaped clouds and flying unicorns reigned over the menagerie. And a seventeen-year-old lived in this young girl’s room?

  “She’s not here,” Martha said. “Oh, my God, do you think . . . ?”

  “I know it.” His voice cracked as he let out a sob. “Who else would take the Ghia? It was her.” Head in hands, Kent sank onto the neatly made bed, knocking a lime-green dragon to the shag carpeting. “My baby girl. My Lucy
is gone.”

  3

  Lt. Omak and I stood by as the author cried. Martha sat beside her husband, one arm around his shoulders, a cheek pressed to his head in solidarity. The raw pain of that moment gripped everyone in the room.

  There were dozens of questions to ask as well as evidence samples to collect, but Kent Jameson needed a moment to get beyond the initial shock. At last, his wife decided it was best to get him out of “her room,” and she led him back to the living room, back to the same fat chair. She stayed close, rubbing his arm and getting him a box of tissues. I sensed that this was the usual tenor of their relationship: the creative, eccentric genius nurtured by a gilded younger wife.

  Lt. Omak handed over the water, and I realized why he had asked for it in the first place. Kent took a few sips before handing it back to his wife and patting his hips. “Where’s my cell?” He pulled a phone out of the pocket of his jeans and tapped the screen with a sigh. “I should have done this first. Maybe she’s just a phone call away, and we’re overreacting.”

  Martha’s brows rose in a hopeful expression, and I think we all held our breath as he called her number. A moment later, his lips stretched into a scowl once again. “No answer, and she’s got no mailbox set up, as usual.” He stared at the cell phone. “Maybe she’ll answer my text.”

  “Please let us know right away if you hear from her,” I said.

  He glanced up from the phone in his hands. “Maybe it’s not her. There’s no note in her room, and if I were writing the scene, there’d be a note saying good-bye.”

  “Don’t they usually leave notes?” Martha asked. “Statistically?”

  I understood that it was Jameson’s job to create mystery scenarios, but it seemed calloused to boil the probability of death down to a plot device. Besides, we had not thoroughly searched Lucy’s room for a note. “Every case is different. Is Lucy your only daughter?” I asked, trying to ease into conversation with a question I knew the answer to.

  “Yes. An only child. Spoiled more than most, but it wasn’t always that way. When she was a baby, her mom and I didn’t have two nickels to rub together.” Kent raked one hand through his already wild hair. For a man approaching fifty, he still had a full head of thick hair. And the color was wonderful—honey brown with flecks of gold that couldn’t be real. He had a large, horsey mouth and skin slightly mottled by teen acne, which kept him from being perfectly handsome.