Where the Lost Girls Go

by R. J. Noonan

  “But Blossom liked him, too. A lot. She was in love. She would whisper about him when we were off fetching water from the rain catchers or when we were gathering kindling.”

  “Blossom was in love with the Prince?” I squinted. “He’s more than ten years older than she was.”

  “But she really loved him.”

  “Did you ever see them together?”

  “No, but she had to keep it a secret because he was still with another girl. And she never talked about him around Lucy. That was what made me guess it was the Prince. Blossom called him A, like it was her secret code. A was going to break up with the other girl and marry Blossom.”

  “A.” I nodded. “Are you sure she wasn’t in love with Andy Greenleaf?”

  “Andy?” She laughed. “He’s got a girlfriend. Blossom was in love with the Prince. A stands for Aragon, you know?”

  I had considered that possibility, but it didn’t seem likely when, for the past few months, he’d been in the woods, and she’d been living at the Jamesons’.

  “I bet Lucy knew what was going on,” Ellie continued. “That’s why Lucy wanted Blossom to leave the camp. She took her away and got rid of her, I just know it.”

  “That’s a strong accusation, Ellie. How do you know for sure?”

  “It wasn’t the first time Lucy killed someone.” Ellie was fading, her tone growing soft. “Last spring, she left with Maya, and Maya never came back.”

  “Ellie, that doesn’t mean the girl is dead.”

  “But she is.” Ellie’s eyes filled with tears. “She went to the big house to stay for a few days and never came back. She never came back for her stuff. Her sleeping bag and her necklaces. She loved those necklaces. She would never have gone off without them. And she left without saying good-bye to Morgan and me, and Maya would never do that. We had a deal that we would always come back for each other. We were the Three Musketeers; Maya wouldn’t have left us behind. She went off with Lucy, and now she’s dead. Just like Blossom. Two girls gone and two girls dead.” Tears glistened in Ellie’s eyes. “You don’t have to believe me, but I know it’s true. Lucy killed them.”

  * * *

  “Lucy Jameson is a killer?” Omak winced, probably at the thought of all the feathers that would be flying if we investigated the daughter of the celebrity author. “Where’d you get that tip?”

  “Ellie is convinced that she killed Maya Williams and Kyra Miller, two of the Lost Girls.” I had hurried over from the hospital to break the news to Z and the boss. Although the notion of Lucy as a killer had seemed crazy at first, I saw how the threads of evidence were weaving together, and I felt more determined than ever to find Lucy Jameson. “Here’s what I’m thinking . . .” As I detailed the scenario of Lucy as Blossom’s killer, I wrote her name on the white board. Under that I wrote,

  Gas cans

  Access to car

  Experience with Karmann Ghia

  Jealousy over Prince

  Emotionally unstable

  History of broken friendships

  “It’s a theory,” Omak agreed, staring at the white board. “How about the GHB? How did Lucy or the Prince get their hands on the date-rape drug?”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” I said. “More often than not it’s a street drug. They could have scored it anywhere in Portland.”

  “We know it wasn’t prescribed,” Z said as he studied the white board. “Martha Jameson told us that no one on the ranch has easy access to GHB or Valium. Well, she did make it clear that she couldn’t vouch for Andy Greenleaf.”

  “Trying to point the blame on Andy still?” Omak said.

  “Probably,” I said. “She and Kent have withheld information all along. Now I suspect they’re desperate to save Lucy’s skin. Kent out of love for his kid, Martha because she worries about her husband’s sales slipping.”

  Z pointed at the notes on the board. “So it was your basic love triangle. Kyra had sex with the Prince. Lucy found out and killed Kyra.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “The anger had to be simmering for a while. That gave her a chance to plan the murder, fill the gas cans, and get the drugs. The brake lines were probably cut on the same day.”

  Omak frowned at the notes on the board. “I wish we could interview this young lady.”

  “That’s our next task. We’ve got to find Lucy Jameson and get some answers. The Jamesons don’t seem concerned, but she’s seventeen and she’s been missing for forty-eight hours.”

  Omak wrote “AMBER Alert?” on the white board. “We could try it.”

  “I would do it if I thought it would help us find her. But chances are she’s holed up in the woods with the campers.”

  “And if that list of names Ellie gave you is correct, Lucy can lead us to the Lost Girls in Stafford Woods.”

  “That would be an added bonus.” Ellie had given me the names of the campers—three males and six females, including Ellie. There were two known Lost Girls in the group: True, whom I’d recognized as Nicki Welsh, and Pax, whom we believed to be Emma Dupree. Lucy Jameson came and went, as did Eden, the older girl I’d met in the stables. And then there was Ellie and her sister Morgan. Blane, the groomer at the barn, went by Wolf at the camp. And the group was led by the Prince with the help of Guardian, a tall black boy whom Ellie described as “quiet as death.”

  The pleas of the Duprees from the other day were still fresh in my mind: “Please help us find our daughter. Help us bring our Lost Girls home.” And now we were so close to bringing their daughter back home.

  “I wish I knew how to reach out to those kids in the woods,” I said.

  “It’s not going to be easy with a survivalist like Vandenbos at the helm.” Omak capped the marker and tucked it on the ledge. “He’s avoided cops and park police for months. Although he’s off the grid, he seems to have access to news.”

  “He’s got more than four square miles of forest to hide in,” said Z. “And those woods are treacherous.”

  I was glad that Z had said it. I had no desire to beat the bushes in those wooded acres of shadow and desolation. “Conducting a foot search would take at least a week, and it would require more manpower than we can spare.”

  Z snapped his fingers. “We can go in through the air. How about we fly over in helicopters with infrared devices?”

  Omak considered this. “You know, Portland owns two Cessnas with infrared FLIR cameras. It’s tempting.”

  “That would be awesome. We would find them in no time.”

  Z’s enthusiasm made Omak cautious. “I can hear the accusations of paramilitaristic policing already. And a lot of these campers seem to be minors. We know Lucy Jameson is only seventeen. We have to proceed with caution.”

  “I’m telling you, it would work, Lou. I’d be down with the infrared thing.”

  “I’ll think about it. Much as I want to bring those kids in, I can’t sanction an operation in which someone might get hurt. And I’d rather use psychology than force.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I said. “It would be a lot more effective to draw the campers out of the woods than to stage a widespread search.”

  “How you gonna do that?” Z frowned. “Dangle some carrots at the edge of the woods?”

  “Psychological force. Looking at the Prince’s well-to-do background, I’m thinking he might be concerned about his reputation. If we can get the word out about him and the group of girls, reveal what we know about him, he might be tried in the court of public opinion.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Omak rubbed his jaw. “Another press conference?”

  “It would pack more of a punch if it didn’t come from us,” I said. “I was thinking of contacting—”

  Z snapped his fingers. “Your reporter friend. Natalie.”

  “Natalie Amichi,” I said, noting that Z had remembered her. “She’s a producer for channel seven news. She’s already working on a story about the campers. I’ll pass on the information about Emory Vandenbos. If I
call her now, we have a chance of getting it on the eleven o’clock news.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Omak said.

  “We can also try other connections to Lucy. Martha didn’t pan out, but Kent Jameson might give us some insight into her habits, ways to reach her.” I checked my watch. “It’s almost nine, but Kent Jameson suffers from insomnia. He’ll be up. Let’s give it a shot, Z.”

  Z grinned as Omak rose from the table. “All right then. Keep me updated.”

  Z gave me a curious look.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Isn’t this your day off?”

  22

  “Just saying, if it was my day off, I’d be home making a dent on the couch,” Z grumbled as I showed him where to turn onto Fir Ridge Road en route to the Jameson ranch.

  “Omak told me I can put in for overtime. And time is of the essence here.”

  “Yeah, but at nine o’clock at night? Didn’t your mother teach you basic manners? You leave people alone between nine and nine.”

  I smiled. “That does sound like my mother. But this is different. We’re cops.”

  “And this couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “I’m sorry if you had something to do tonight. The last thing I’d want to do is put a crimp in your social life to solve a murder investigation.” I was half joking, half probing. I had no idea what Z’s social life was like.

  “Bullshit. You’re into this stuff, Mori. Lucky for you there’s no football on Wednesday night.”

  No mention of a girlfriend, and I knew he wasn’t married. Interesting. I was curious to know what really happened when he’d been investigated by the department, but it was too soon to ask. “Lucky for me,” I said.

  “Let’s just hope we don’t get in a shootout with Garcia and Brown. Asshats.”

  I laughed, though there was a grain of truth in his concern. While I’d been away, a little scandal had broken at the precinct, leaving almost everyone disgruntled. Chief Crappin’ had intervened in Omak’s order to put Garcia and Brown back on patrol, and they’d been returned to the supreme detail of being armed security for the Stafford Woods area. “Everyone knows they’re up there to protect Kent Jameson, Mr. Richie Rich Moneybags,” Z said, talking with the side of his mouth clenched.

  “Why is the chief micromanaging? Omak knows what he’s doing.”

  “Money talks.”

  “So now those two are just spending their shifts parked in Stafford Woods?”

  “Apparently. Not much different from what they’ve been doing the past year. Which is nothing.”

  “Where do you think they’re hiding? Or do they work day shifts?” I stared into the woods, a dark, foreboding blur. “I’ve never seen them at the Jameson compound.”

  “Rumor has it that the Jamesons tell them where to stand guard. Like the fucking king and queen of England. But I wouldn’t be surprised to find Brown and Garcia having a pancake pig-out at Mac’s Diner.”

  I pointed the way to the main compound and described the horseshoe configuration of buildings as Z parked the patrol car by the main house. Since I’d already spoken with Martha a few times, I thought it best to avoid her. “She tends to make excuses for Kent—that he’s busy or distraught or overworked—so let’s go straight to his studio.”

  It was perfect October weather—clear and crisp—and the three-quarter moon in the indigo sky cast a silvery glow over the paving stones, grasses, and plants.

  The author opened the door soon after we knocked, his broad shoulders cutting a massive silhouette against the warm light inside. I didn’t know what to expect from this volatile man, but tonight he welcomed us in.

  “Don’t mind the mess. I always say a creative mess is better than organized boredom, but Martha doesn’t quite agree.”

  The studio was welcoming with walls in warm shades of mocha, cinnamon, and paprika. How long had it been since I’d eaten? I was starting to see things in the color of food. A corduroy couch and two leather chairs sat before a gas fireplace. A very basic table with a laptop and mounds and stacks of scattered notes, open books, clippings, napkins, eyeglasses, calendars, and so on faced the back window. Two walls were covered in books. One wall was shiny windows and a sliding glass door that led out to the inky black forest. The other held a kitchenette that boasted a full fridge, stove, and microwave. Otherwise, there was plenty of space to pace.

  Z introduced himself, and Kent offered us something to drink. “Help yourself. There’s tea and a Keurig. Hot drinks are my daily vice.”

  In true Martha form, I went over to the tea basket in the kitchen and made three cups of Darjeeling from the hot water spout. Sometimes people felt bonded when you shared food or drink.

  “We don’t mean to alarm you, sir, but we wanted to talk to you about Lucy.” I kept my voice level as I dunked the tea bags. “We’re concerned that no one has seen her for forty-eight hours now. Before we alert Missing Persons, we thought we’d gather any pertinent information that might be helpful.”

  “Missing Persons?” He seemed shocked.

  I brought over two cups and handed them out. Kent nodded in thanks, but Z looked as if I’d handed him a cup of motor oil. “That would be the next logical step.”

  Kent straightened to his full height, puffing up impressively. “That’s not necessary. She knows how to handle herself.”

  “She’s only seventeen. A girl close to her in age just died in suspicious circumstances. It’s reasonable to assume Lucy could be in some danger. We could put out an AMBER Alert for her.” Somehow I knew Jameson wouldn’t go for that—too much publicity.

  “Let’s not go overboard,” he said. “I hate to waste town and federal resources when I know where my daughter is.” When he realized Z and I were waiting, he said, “Stafford Woods, I think. She hangs out with that group, the Prince and his loyal subjects. I’m not thrilled about it, but it’s an improvement over her earlier escapes to Portland. She would spend the night in shop doorways or dark corners of Pioneer Courthouse Square. That kept me up at night.”

  “I can imagine what goes through your head. It can’t be easy.” From observing my sister at home, I had witnessed the difficulties of a teen breaking away from her parents. “I have to be honest—I’m worried about Lucy. Do you have any tips on how we might find her in the woods?”

  His eyes twinkled as he looked up from his tea. “If I had them, I would have used them long ago. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that not all lost souls want to be found.”

  “A sad thing to say.” Especially from a man who was seemingly at the top of his craft, on top of the world.

  “Sad but true. But don’t get me wrong. Although I allow Lucy a long tether, I do love my daughter. I may not be an überdad, but I am an involved parent. Lucy and I are a team—I’m the only family she’s got—and she knows I’m committed to her well-being. If I cut corners here and there and spoil her . . . Well, there are worse things a father can do.”

  It struck me that Kent Jameson, although surrounded by a full-time staff and an adoring community, lived a life of isolation.

  “I haven’t met Lucy,” I said, “so right now, she’s a total enigma to me.”

  Kent took a sip of tea, nodding. “It’s no wonder. She’s a complicated creature.”

  “Were you close?”

  “We were and we are.” He lowered the mug and lifted his chin. “Two people don’t need to see each other all the time to maintain a strong connection. Honestly, I miss her when she disappears like this, but a child needs to spread her wings.”

  “I can’t help but worry about her right now. Alone and grieving the death of her friend. It sounds like she and Blossom were close.”

  “Ah, Blossom! She was a sweet girl, like a sister to Lucy. Everyone here became quite attached to her. It breaks my heart when I think of what Andy did to her.” He drew in a raspy breath.

  So . . . he believed Andy was guilty? Was he simply misinformed, or was he placing blame on Andy to c
over for Lucy?

  “I can’t let my mind go there or I’ll lose a day or two in a funk. When the heart is broken, the brain shuts down.”

  “We don’t want to throw you off, sir,” I said, “but we’d appreciate any observations that might help us solve this case. As a writer of suspense stories, I’m sure you know how that goes. Building a case, collecting evidence.”

  “Ah, yes, profiling the killer. I know that Martha suspects Andy, and perhaps she’s correct. But I’ve always found him to be polite and hardworking. He had that incident when he was younger, but I’ve not seen any lingering hints of pedophilia.”

  “Then you don’t see him as a murderer?” I asked, gripping the warm mug with both hands. I’d added a generous amount of honey to my tea—a sweet boost.

  “As an employer and a friend, no. But as a writer, I have to say, there’s that scintilla of doubt. A registered sex offender. A man approaching thirty—that’s a transition time for men, though Andy seems stuck in perennial boyhood. A Peter Pan. I don’t want to believe he’s a killer, but let’s say I could imagine it. I could write him as a villain.”

  “That’s very insightful,” I said. And incredibly indecisive.

  “Yes, well, I dream up character profiles for a living.”

  “I like that game, too. Trying to figure people out.” I took a sip of the tea. “At one time I wanted to be a criminal profiler.”

  “And why didn’t you become one?” asked Kent.

  “It required too much school. I wanted to finish with college and start living.” I also didn’t have the grades to go on to a master of forensic science, but Kent and Z didn’t need to know that.

  As we were leaving, I asked about the alpacas, and he told us that all the animals were purchased to indulge Lucy. “She quickly lost interest, but that’s kids for you. The alpacas can be a lucrative business, and Martha is a brilliant manager.” He told us that his wife had hired someone to fill in for Andy, at least for the time being. When I asked who, he shrugged, saying he stayed out of the day-to-day business of the ranch.