Where the Lost Girls Go

by R. J. Noonan

  I spoke with the Jamesons’ mechanic, Hal Burke, who agreed with the assessment of the Ghia that our mechanic had made. He was surprised by the gas can, saying that it was not typical for any of the Jamesons’ cars to carry gasoline. “I can’t imagine Martha allowing that—fuel sloshing around in the trunk. She’s such a neat freak, she won’t even let me keep gas in the main garage. There’s just the one in the maintenance garage.”

  I thanked Hal and ended the call, thinking about that gas can. If the Jamesons’ fuel cans were accounted for, where had the gas container in the car come from? As I hung up, I realized that some local gas station attendant might remember filling a gas can, as it didn’t happen that often. I pulled up a map of gas stations near the Jameson estate and started calling. The first person I spoke with told me he wouldn’t recognize the Jamesons or their staff if they came in with a gas can. The second place I called told me they respected their customers’ privacy and wouldn’t give out that information. Confidentiality at the pump? I realized that this was another job that had to be done in person, and I was short on time tonight.

  I texted Randy, deciding to reel in that coffee date sooner rather than later, using my investigation as an excuse. He had mentioned that his sister Sonia was once friends with Lucy Jameson. By asking them both to coffee, I could multitask. Coffee, investigation, and Randy. Tomorrow would be the perfect morning.

  Next I fielded a call from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department regarding the death of Candy Jameson. Detective Chase Dupont verified that Candy Jameson had died three years ago of a drug overdose, which was ruled a suicide. He agreed to send me a copy of the report. In my e-mails I found a correspondence from our records department with an electronic attachment from the archives. It was the police report from the domestic dispute four years ago when Candy had paid her ex a visit. News accounts from that time had mentioned an argument between Candy and Kent, but the officer at the scene reported that a confrontation with some physical violence—a tossed teapot, a brandished knife—had ensued between Candy and Martha.

  Interesting. Why was the public version switched? To protect Martha’s reputation? The report had been filled out by Officer Esme Garcia.

  Z came in from a meeting on another case, and I told him about the missing reports from the 9-1-1 calls to the Jameson estate. “There were at least two calls there in the last two years, but there’s nothing on file.”

  “No paper copy?”

  “Nothing. What do you make of that?”

  “Some funny business.” He checked over his shoulder to see who was in the squad room, then added, “Another example of fine police work by Brown and Garcia.”

  “How do you know they were the cops who responded?”

  “It’s their gig now. I’m kind of surprised they’re letting you step through the hallowed gates.”

  “Who’s stopping us? Are we kowtowing because Kent Jameson is a celebrity? That doesn’t mean he can get away with murder.”

  Z leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Just let it go right now, okay? I’m in enough trouble. So . . .” He straightened, looking down at my desk. “What else have you got?”

  I updated him on my call with the mechanic and my discovery of the Prince’s identity.

  “No kidding. Another spoiled rich guy who thinks he’s Peter Pan. Just what this town needs.”

  Biting back a smile, I looked at the time and sighed. “I’m supposed to be cutting out of here, but I haven’t resolved this gas can issue.” I started to explain, but he held up a hand.

  “Yeah, yeah, I saw the report. A full can of gas contributed to the fire in the sports car. So we need to check local service stations and see if they remember filling a gas can for any of our friendly suspects.”

  “I tried calling around, but the people I talked to gave me the brush-off.”

  “Yeah, this calls for some face time.” He checked his watch. “I’ll go. Most stations are open till nine or ten.”

  “Thanks.” As I rose to head out, part of me wanted to bow out of the family dinner and stay. But that would have been the easy choice.

  In the women’s locker room, I quickly changed into a print pencil skirt and a black sweater. I was slipping on my leather jacket when Garcia emerged from the restroom.

  “Cutting out early?” she sniped as she opened her locker.

  I wasn’t sure if it was my own guilt at leaving or if she had meant to make it sound like I was a loser.

  “We missed you at the press conference,” I said sweetly. “Which surprised me, since I know the Jameson estate is your special detail.”

  “I had an appointment.”

  “Actually, I was just looking at a report you wrote from the Jameson place. One from four years ago. It’s the only reference I have, since there are no reports on file from other calls to the Jameson compound.”

  She stopped moving but stood staring into her locker. “Really.”

  “Did you forget to file those reports?” I asked. “Or did something happen to them?”

  “I do my job, Mori. Those reports were done. I filed them myself.”

  “Well, they’re gone.” I hung my uniform shirt in my locker. “Do you remember what the nine-one-one calls were about?”

  “The daughter. The pompous wife. Those two fight like cats and dogs.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “I’m no psychologist,” Garcia said. “I gotta get back.” She closed her locker but didn’t slam it.

  A good sign, I thought. The words of a failed psychologist.

  * * *

  After a stop at home to pick up my mother and Hannah, we headed, as if on autopilot, to the restaurant where I’d spent so many hours of my life. As I drove, I told my mother and sister the story of Emory Vandenbos’s plane crash and survival. “He’s the leader of that hippie group living in Stafford Woods,” I said. “And now we’re thinking that some of the campers living there might be the Lost Girls, those missing runaways.”

  “Bad girls,” my mother said, clucking her tongue. “Leaving their parents like that.”

  “Mom, some of them don’t have parents. They’re orphans. Foster kids.”

  “I like the story about the kid surviving in the woods after the plane crash,” Hannah said. “So he’s really rich now?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Is he cute?”

  I sighed. My family never really listened to my stories.

  The family dinner was a ritual started by my mother when I was in junior high. My father had been working long days and nights, getting the family restaurant on its feet, and my mother realized that we might never see him if we didn’t come in to dine at the restaurant once a week. My father still works long hours, but as his children grew to have various commitments, the dinners dwindled down to once a month.

  In the restaurant, we paused beside the gold leaf screen hand-painted with a sakura blossom to hug the hostess, Yoshino, who is like an auntie to me and my siblings. I believe my father’s enterprise has singlehandedly subsidized the Japanese American community in Portland.

  “Such a beautiful coat, Keiko!” she told my mother. “And here’s our lady cop, Laura!” she said, hugging me. “And the famous scholar, sure to be valedictorian!” she told Hannah.

  We all hugged her back, basking in her lilac perfume and telling her how good it was to see her.

  Inside, my father was sitting at a table of five, giving lessons on Japanese customs. He is a slight man, only five feet ten inches tall, but when he smiles, his joy fills the entire room. “So in Japan, when someone makes a toast, you raise your glass. Look them in the eye and say, ‘Kanpai!’ That means empty cup or bottoms up. And you take sip. Even a small sip is good. Let’s all try.” He lifted a glass of water and said, “Kanpai!”

  The others at the table lifted a glass and toasted.

  “Very good! And don’t forget, very polite to look the person toasting in the eye. Don’t forget, now,” he said, smiling at the t
wo boys wearing soccer jerseys.

  “We won’t,” one of the kids said.

  Dad looked up and, noticing us standing by the table, scrambled to his feet. “Oh, look at that! This is my family!” He patted Hannah’s shoulder. “Somehow, they found me. I can’t believe it!” I sagged a little as he introduced my mother, the love of his life; my sister, the brightest scholar; and then me, “our resident psychologist.”

  The slip brought me back to Dad’s litany when I had worked at the restaurant:

  My daughter Laura, she going to be a famous psychologist. She got the right stuff. Her brother, he’s studying to be a doctor, and I got a lawyer already—the oldest. When everyone done with school, we open up one big business. You come here to fix your head and heart and get legal advice and a full belly, all at the same time.

  My father used to repeat this little ditty as if it were the funniest joke in the world. Customers loved it. I laughed along, enjoying it. That lasted for many years until, toward the end of high school, it became clear that psychology would not be my destiny.

  “So very nice to meet you,” my mother told the diners. “We’ll leave you to your dinners now.” And she led the way to our table.

  Dad followed her, and I hurried to catch up and take his arm. “Dad, I’m a police officer now.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But when you want to come back here, you can be our resident psychologist again. Everyone misses you! There wasn’t a problem you couldn’t fix.”

  It was hard to be annoyed with his enthusiasm.

  We didn’t need the menus my father passed out before hurrying off to attend to something. As usual, we would share a plate of salmon teriyaki, miso soup, and salad. But ten minutes later, Dad still hadn’t joined us.

  “Where is your father?” Keiko asked, her dark eyes skimming the restaurant.

  “I see him over in the sun-room,” Hannah said. “I think he’s delivering a dissertation on the history of the rice bowl.”

  “Stop that. Your father works hard.”

  “We know, Mom.” I rose from the table. “I’ll go put our order in.” I knew my way around the place, and it felt good to step into the kitchen, past the staff bulletin board where people posted photos of themselves and notes. Dad had posted a note in his lovely script: Who will work Halloween? Everyone wearing costumes! And on a table beneath that was a prank candy bowl with a green monster hand that would grab you when you reached for candy.

  I planned to give our order to the chef personally so that he could add a nice little touch for Dad. Radish roses or a side of cauliflower tempura. It was always fun to surprise someone who delighted in the details. From here, I could see that the chef had stepped off the line and was talking with Yoshino. It would be rude to interrupt.

  As I waited, I sneaked a hand around the side of the bowl and grabbed a peppermint patty. Yes! But that was too easy. I tried again, daring to go closer to the green hand.

  “Hahaha!” the voice cackled as the hand snapped over mine and I jumped back in glee. In some ways, I was my father’s daughter.

  Peeking around the wall, I saw that they were still talking.

  “Tell Koji I want to come out and say hello,” said Michael. He had been our chef since I was in high school.

  “I will, but after the meal, of course. I’m telling you, it’s so good to see them, but sad, too. I don’t know about Laura. When she became a police officer, it broke Koji’s heart.”

  Pain sliced my heart, immobilizing me.

  “She’s a good kid,” Michael said.

  “Yes, but a disappointment,” Yoshino said. “What can we do? He’s still smiling, so we must do the same.”

  Michael said something, but my ears had gone deaf from the thickness in my throat and the thrum of my racing heart. My legs seemed frozen in place, but I commanded them to move, and they did, quivering as I staggered out the door. Head down, I held myself together long enough to pause at a computer terminal, tap in my ID code indelibly lodged in my brain, and place our order.

  Then it took all my might to force myself to keep breathing, even tiny breaths, as I hurried to the ladies’ room. My heart was racing so fast, I felt sure it would burst. Inside the stall, I fought the tight, choking fist of panic as the hand dryer roared and voices echoed out in the hall.

  Deep breaths, just take deep breaths, I reminded myself.

  Our resident psychologist, my father said so proudly. She can fix anything.

  Sometimes you can’t fix things. Sometimes the broken pieces simply don’t fit together anymore.

  * * *

  That night, Hannah came into my room with Tigger in her arms. “I can’t believe you missed most of dinner,” she said, standing over my bed. Imperious Hannah.

  “I just had the worst cramps,” I lied.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much.”

  She sat on the bed and put the dog down between us. Tigger stretched out and rested his chin on his paws. Hannah and I cooed and stroked his silky fur as he stared up at us with bulgy eyes. Overkill.

  “I used to love going to the restaurant,” Hannah said, “but now it feels a little strained, like we have to perform.”

  “I guess the novelty has worn off.”

  “Or Mom and Dad don’t see us for who we really are.”

  I looked at my younger sister, as if seeing her through a new pair of lenses. “You are exactly right. And that doesn’t make it easy.”

  “I know.” She stood up and yawned. “That’s why I brought you Tigger. He’ll sleep with you tonight. You know, Cavaliers make great therapy dogs.”

  “They do. Thanks.”

  Hannah left, quietly closing the door. I placed my head beside the sleeping dog, and my eyes filled with tears of thanks. My sister was becoming a human being.

  * * *

  I woke up the next morning feeling recharged and ready to kick some investigative butt. It was Wednesday—my day off, except for an appointment with the county prosecutor that I would be paid overtime for. Since my meeting with Randy and his sister wasn’t really police business, I wore jeans, a white sweater, and my favorite black boots.

  “Get anything you want,” I told Sonia. “I’m buying.”

  “I love their caramel macchiatos. I would drink one every morning if it wasn’t hella lot of calories.” She ordered one with a triple shot but declined any food.

  I ordered a latte and splurged on an almond croissant. While I hadn’t been able to run the past few days, I also hadn’t been eating much. I deserved a treat.

  “I’m good with water,” Randy said.

  “Seriously? Did you give up caffeine?”

  “I don’t need a fancy drink.”

  “How about a regular coffee?” Just a coffee, not a commitment, I thought, noticing his uneasiness. He seemed ready to bolt out the door.

  He got a small coffee, and we settled into a table under a red pendant that looked like an artist’s rendition of a bomb.

  “I have to be at school by nine twenty,” Sonia said. “I don’t have a first-period class this year. Finally.”

  “So you’re a senior?” I said, tearing off the corner of the flaky croissant. “How’s the college search going?” As she talked of universities she’d visited, I realized that Randy’s little sister was growing up, just like the rest of us. The dark hair that used to resemble a wild garden was now tamed into long ringlets, the fierce brows plucked to reveal the same smoky eyes her brother possessed. As a member of the dance team, her direction at school varied from my sister’s quest for the Ivy League, but both approaches held a generous measure of obsessiveness.

  “Anyway, that’s that. Randy said you had something to ask me. Like, real police business.” She sipped from the straw, staring at me with narrowed eyes. “You don’t really look like a cop, Laura. Do you wear a uniform?”

  “I do. With a shiny badge and a real gun.”

  “Have you ever shot anyone?”

  I laughed. “No. But I haven’t even b
een on the streets for two months.”

  “I can’t even.” She shook her head. “That is freakin’ amazing.”

  Her admiration pumped me up a bit until I looked over to Randy, whose sour expression drained my enthusiasm. Whatever. I would deal with him later.

  “I wanted to talk to you because I’m trying to track down Lucy Jameson,” I said, explaining that she had been missing since the car crash.

  Her curls bobbed as she nodded. “Oh, my God, yeah. I heard about the crash. Only I haven’t seen Lucy for years. I don’t know where she is.”

  “I’m more interested in how she was back when you knew her. Was that your freshman year of high school?”

  “That was when it ended. We hung out in junior high, all through eighth grade. It was super fun when she went to school. We had a couple of classes together, and she always sat near me and sent me funny texts until the teacher started taking our cell phones at the beginning of class. Then she started passing notes. She was a sweet girl. I used to love going over to her house. I remember her room was like a fairy-tale kingdom with tons of stuffed animals. We would stay up late listening to music and talking.”

  “So you met her father and stepmother?”

  “Yeah. They were cool.”

  “Did you guys travel in a group of friends?”

  “No. That was the weird thing. It was always just the two of us, and when I invited Lucy to play on my soccer team or come to the movies, she cut out. When I wanted to go to the spring dance, she got kind of mad at me. I sort of shook it off. I had some other friends. It was cool.”

  “So what happened in freshman year?”

  She shrugged. “High school was different. There were a lot of new people at school, and I wanted to spread my wings. Lucy didn’t like it. I think she was overwhelmed. One day she just stopped coming to school. I called her, and she said she was homeschooling and that she didn’t want to hear about any of our friends. The next thing I knew, she was hanging out with some girl who didn’t even go to our school. Katie something. She was older, like sixteen and driving. When I suggested that we hang out one weekend, Lucy blew me off and said it was over. Just like that. She stopped answering my text messages and everything.”