Where the Lost Girls Go

by R. J. Noonan

  “I think you do,” Z pushed. “You’re an intelligent woman. You know that GHB was found in Kyra Miller’s body. A large dose of it, actually.”

  I held up the vial. “It appears that Lucy played a role in drugging Kyra.”

  “But I don’t want to believe it.” Martha’s eyes were shiny with tears, and she quickly looked away. “You know, I’m not her mother, but I’ve tried to fill the gap. I’ve tried to lead by example, show her how to be not only a strong woman but a good person.” She reached up to dash away a tear on her cheek. “I’ve failed her.”

  Again, that toxic f word.

  “You tried,” I said. “Kids reach a certain age and you can’t control them. Young people make their own choices.”

  “The wrong choices.” She sobbed, covering her face with her hands.

  We gave her a moment to work through it and compose herself. As she sniffed and dried her eyes, I wondered at the sense of loss in knowing someone you loved had taken a life. It was hard to know what would be greater: disappointment in the killer or disappointment in yourself for not seeing her deadly potential.

  “You did the right thing by telling us,” Z said.

  “I know that Mr. Jameson wanted us to keep our distance from Lucy, but this changes things. Do you think we could talk to her now?”

  She rose, as if she had to do this quickly or risk losing her resolve. “She’s in her room. Kent’s in his studio. He spent the night there. Come with me.”

  And just like that, the door that had been slammed in our faces that morning opened right back up.

  Lucy sat on the floor of her room, surrounded by a circle of stuffed animals that were lined up and facing her. I could have sworn I heard her talking to them softly as Martha knocked on the door. Dressed in pink-and-purple geometric leggings, fringed boots, and an oversized white hoody, she was hugging a floppy white stuffed dog. “What’s up?” she said, as if we always dropped in on her.

  I introduced myself and Z.

  “I know who you are from last night,” Lucy said. “I’m not crazy, you know.”

  “Is it okay if we ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure. Do you want to come into the circle?”

  I did, sitting on the floor beside her. Martha sat on the edge of the empty bed, while Z stood against one wall, watching.

  “First, I think we should look at some photos. These are your pictures. I collected them the night of the crash, when we thought you were driving the Ghia. But I don’t recognize a lot of the people. Maybe you can help me identify them.” As I spoke, I went online on my phone and brought up the case file photographs that had been scanned by the property clerk. I went to the oldest photo first, a pale-skinned girl with wheat-colored hair. I’d been unable to identify the girl from Missing Persons or the Lost Girls database. “Do you recognize her?” I asked, tilting the phone screen toward her.

  “That’s my friend Alice,” she said. “And she was a lot prettier than she looks in that picture. But she was a wreck. A hot mess. She came from a family of addicts; she was always looking to drink or smoke or get some pills.”

  “Did you do drugs with her?”

  “Me? Never. But she dragged me into Portland, which was not my scene. It was too boring hanging out downtown, and those homeless people smelled really rank. But there was one good thing about Portland. While I was hanging out at Pioneer Courthouse Square, I met the Prince and some of his people. And eventually, he ended up moving out to Stafford Woods.”

  “Are you still friends with Alice?”

  “No, she left a long time ago. But she wasn’t a very good friend. Dad said it was because of her addictions. I try to forget Alice. But let me show you what a real friend looks like.” Lucy rose to her knees and started going through the drawers of her desk. “Where are all my photos?”

  “We took them in as evidence when we thought you were missing,” I said. “But this is the only other girl you had pictures of.”

  “That’s not true. I had a lot more . . . all my friends.” Her head snapped around toward her stepmother. “Martha, what happened to my pictures?”

  The older woman shrugged. “Just as she said, Lucy. They took them into the police station.”

  “But the photos of my friends. Where are my friends? Did you steal them?”

  Martha stared down at her hands, trying to compose herself. “No, I did not. Lucy, please try to calm yourself.”

  “I hate this place.” Lucy put the stuffed dog down and snatched up a blue bear. “I have a lot more friends.”

  “Tell me about them,” I said. “Who are your friends?”

  “Well, I had friends in school. People liked me for me, and that was before my father was famous and throwing money at everyone. But I lost all my friends when I switched to homeschooling. Well. Until I met Katie.”

  “Katie Cohen?” Lucy nodded. She was the first girl reported missing on the list of Lost Girls. And hadn’t Sonia mentioned that Lucy was friends with a girl named Katie? I should have put that together.

  “When was that?” I asked. “A few years ago?”

  Lucy nodded. “She was babysitting for a neighbor when we met. Katie was sixteen, and I was like thirteen or something, but we hit it off. She turned out to be a good friend. We were meant to be together. She moved in with us, slept in that bed right across from me. It was like having a sister. Dad taught her to drive, and she would take me anywhere I wanted to go . . . to Sonic or the movies or for frozen yogurt or just riding around. Those were good times.”

  “Are you still friends with Katie?”

  “No. Because she ran away. She was living here, but then she left for no reason.” Lucy hugged the bear and crumpled forward. “Oh, God. That was really hard for me. People act like I’m a brick, that things don’t hurt me and eat away at me inside. That pisses me off. They’re so clueless.”

  “It hurts to lose a friend,” I said.

  “Yeah. And I wasn’t the only one who was upset. Katie’s friend Darcy was kind of mad when she came by looking for her. They had plans. Once they turned eighteen, they were going to Hawaii together to volunteer on organic farms. Darcy and I were both upset. We talked a lot about Katie one day and ended up making grilled cheese and playing some Ping-Pong in the game room. And that’s how Darcy and I became friends.”

  “Darcy Bernowski?” I asked, another from the Lost Girls registry.

  “That’s her. There must be some pictures of Darcy around here.” She stood up and started rifling through the dresser. “What happened to my stuff?”

  “Sorry about that,” I said, though I knew we had no photos of Katie or Darcy in the precinct. “We’ll return the things that we brought in. So tell me more about Darcy. Did she move in here, too?”

  “Of course. She loved working in Martha’s garden, right?”

  Martha nodded solemnly.

  “And Darcy was an artist. She showed me how to make sculptures out of salt and flour. We became best friends. Dad called us two peas in a pod.”

  “Are you still friends?”

  “No. I told you, friends always leave.” She slammed the dresser drawer, scooped up a bunch of stuffed animals, and fell onto the empty bed with them. “People are so mean. Picking on me because I can’t hold onto my friends. But I’m not the pathetic one. They’re all screwed up.”

  “It’s hard to lose people,” I said. “I know this is difficult to talk about, but I have to ask you about Maya Williams. I understand she was your friend, too.”

  “Yeah, the Prince named her Genesis. I’m kind of friends with everyone at the camp, but Genesis really liked me. She wanted to be a model, and she wasn’t really into the whole camping scene. She wanted to work her way out of it, so Daddy gave her a job shoveling out stalls in the barn. And before long, we were good friends and she was living with me. We were like sisters. She got me into music, and we went to some concerts together.”

  In my mind, I saw Ellie crying in her hospital bed over Maya’s departure; she�
�d lost her friend to Lucy, then lost her to some unknown fate. Did Lucy not see the big picture? She was the last person to see these girls alive; it seemed likely she was involved in their deaths.

  “And your next friend, after Maya left.” I pressed her. “Was it Kyra Miller, the girl people called Blossom?”

  “Well, yeah. She was more like a little sister. But she—”

  “And after Blossom? Is there someone in line to be your next unfortunate friend?”

  Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “Why are you being mean to me?”

  “Aren’t you a bit concerned that all your friends have disappeared? Some of those girls are listed as missing. Doesn’t that seem unusual to you?”

  “I don’t know why they leave me.”

  “Maybe they don’t leave at all. Someone who knows you well is convinced that you killed Kyra Miller and Maya Williams. Maybe you got sick of them; maybe they did something to piss you off.”

  “No. No!”

  “In the case of Kyra Miller, we have two strong connections to you. Kyra had toxic levels of the date-rape drug GHB in her system when she died, and your father’s prescription drug was found here in your room.”

  “What? That’s insane.”

  “Did you take the drug from your father’s studio?”

  “No. No way. I hate drugs. Haven’t you heard? That’s my problem. All the shrinks want to dumb me down with drugs so I won’t get moody and depressed. But I don’t like them. I don’t take them anymore.”

  “You don’t take them yourself,” said Z, “but maybe you would give them to someone else. Have you ever dosed someone to get back at them for something? For being mean to you or stealing your boyfriend?”

  Her face soured. “Why would I do that? That’s a horrible thing to do.”

  “Lucy, we need you to be honest. Did you put drugs in Blossom’s drink? Did you dose her?”

  “No!” she snapped. Then something struck her, a spark of fury. “Blossom was my friend. I didn’t make her sick with drugs.”

  “Maybe you didn’t realize what would happen when she crashed with a gas can in the car,” Z said. “But you did buy the gasoline. You were seen purchasing two cans.”

  Her eyes flared with anger. “So? That’s not illegal.”

  “It is if you put a gas can in the Karmann Ghia to intensify the explosion at the crash scene. The investigators found remnants of a full gas can in the trunk of the car.”

  “I bought the gas for the Prince’s truck.”

  “And you left it in the Karmann Ghia for what reason?” Z asked.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t. I carried one can out to the woods, and it was freakin’ heavy, too. I left the other can in the garage.” She pulled a large purple gorilla to cover her face. “Why are you being so mean to me?”

  Just then the door flew open and a wild-haired, beet-red Kent Jameson burst into the room. “Stop this,” he said indignantly. “You will stop this now. Stop torturing my daughter.”

  25

  Looking up from my spot on the floor, I saw that Kent was flanked by Garcia and Brown, looking very much like a couple of uniformed thugs. I ignored them. “Mr. Jameson, Martha thought it would be a good idea for us to talk with Lucy.”

  “So Andy’s out and Lucy is in?” Kent protested. “This is a travesty. The only crime my daughter is guilty of is that she was a friend to some confused, fucked-up runaways.”

  Garcia stepped forward making a calming motion with her hands. “Let’s everyone take a deep breath and recognize our purpose. We’re here to protect the family, not arrest them.”

  “But, Esme,” I said, surprising her. I think she expected me to blend into the background like one of the stuffed animals. “We’re officers of the law, not security guards.”

  “Lucy’s not under arrest at this time, but we need to question her,” Z said.

  “Martha, call Armand Winchell,” Kent barked. “You shouldn’t have let them question her without my lawyer present.”

  “But with or without a lawyer, the truth is going to come out.” Martha’s chin was lifted, a noble bearing, despite the sallow look of her face. Unlike the smooth, calm celebrity wife who had answered the door a few nights ago, this was a woman who had suffered in the past few days.

  “We’ll discuss this later,” Kent insisted.

  “They know about Lucy, Kent.” Martha rose and faced her husband, eye to eye. “Anyone can see that she’s disturbed. You can’t protect her for the harm that she’s done. A girl died in a crash out there because of Lucy. Don’t tell me that girl’s life matters less than your daughter’s.”

  “Hello? I’m right here.” Lucy pushed away the stuffed animals. “I hate when you talk about me like I’m not here.” She tossed a donkey at her father and stormed out of the room.

  I followed, mostly to keep tabs on her, though everyone spilled out of the room behind us.

  “I hate them. I hate them!” she chanted as she marched out to the great room and wheeled around to look back. “She always tells him I’m crazy, and he believes her!”

  Kent strode down the hall, pausing to tell me, “It’s an impossible situation to be in: the two women I love at odds with each other.”

  I wanted to tell him it was far worse than that. His wife was calling his daughter a murderer, and the evidence was in her favor.

  As the others exited the room, Z told Brown that he ought to be ashamed for obstructing a murder investigation, Garcia assured Martha that Lucy would not be arrested at this point, and Martha cried, “Oh, but she should be!”

  Watching all this, Lucy shrank back against a river rock pillar and motioned me closer. “I can’t go to jail,” she said in a small voice. “Are you going to send me to jail?”

  Her naiveté was touching. “You wouldn’t go straight to jail,” I explained, more in the tone of a tour guide than a cop. “First we would arrest you, and then you would have a chance to defend yourself in court.”

  “I can’t! I would lose. Everyone thinks I’m crazy!”

  Sad but unfortunately true.

  I gave Lucy my card with my cell phone number. “I’d like to talk more. Call me when you have a chance.”

  She frowned at the card but shoved it into the pocket of her hoody. Although Lucy had accused me of being mean to her, perhaps the straightforward communication we had was preferable to this circus. I hoped she would call.

  Garcia came over to me, her face an angry shade of red as she gestured toward Z and Brown. “Your partner’s a loose cannon,” she snarled. “Get him out of here before we all lose our jobs.”

  I had been too distracted by Lucy to notice that Z and Brown were toe to toe, snarling and growling like two angry bears. Brown had a few inches on Z, but Z was right up in his grill, pointing at him and talking fast and furious. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Brown answered back, his face contorted with eye-bulging fury that made him look monstrous.

  “I called Omak,” Garcia told me, “but you guys better get out. Before we all get written up.”

  * * *

  “That was a train wreck,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road as I drove Omak, Z, and me back to the precinct. I avoided looking in the rearview mirror, where I knew I’d catch the fire of Omak’s glare. The lieutenant had come to the Jameson ranch to try to soothe the Jamesons and extricate us from the fray. He had left Sgt. Joel behind to keep an eye on Garcia and Brown and further pacify the Jamesons.

  “I don’t like surprises,” Omak said, sounding like an annoyed parent. “Explain to me how you two managed to get into the Jameson estate when you were told it was off limits.”

  “We were invited, Lou,” Z insisted.

  “Martha called the precinct and asked us to come,” I said. “It started out promising, with Martha’s admission that she had covered up some facts of the case.” I explained about the drugs found in Lucy’s room and Martha’s willingness to let us talk with Lucy, who admitted to being friends with a string of girls, most of wh
om had disappeared. “It makes me grateful that my friend’s sister Sonia escaped Lucy’s influence unscathed before the pattern of death developed.” As we talked my cell phone buzzed, but I ignored it.

  “That Lucy is a wild card,” Omak went on.

  “She takes after the old man,” Z said. “A real nutjob.”

  “And we know she grew up in an unstable environment,” I said.

  “Well, after that fiasco, it’s going to be harder than ever to get to Lucy,” Omak said.

  “Although we may have an ally in Martha,” I pointed out. “After all the subterfuge, she now seems determined to bring out the truth about Lucy. Kent was furious with her. He told me he’s torn between the two of them.”

  Omak leaned forward, filling my rearview mirror with his stern face. “Be careful with that. Martha Jameson strikes me as being out for Martha Jameson.”

  “She’s totally mercenary,” I agreed. “But I think that now she sees Lucy is going down, and she knows the importance of getting in front of a story. Communications 101. She needs to break the bad news so that she can shape the story. I don’t relish the idea of allying with a backstabber; however, if my only access to Lucy is through Martha, I would make the most of it.”

  “Don’t go back to the Jamesons’ before I do some damage control,” Omak ordered.

  “Lou, we’re investigating a homicide,” Z pointed out.

  “And we know Martha and Kent have been lying to us,” I added. “We could use far more extreme measures than interviewing. I don’t think they’d like it if we got a search warrant for the entire compound.”

  Omak groaned. “Calm down, you two.”

  As Omak warned us about keeping the investigation within legal parameters, my cell phone buzzed again. Annoyed, I pulled it out of my pocket while waiting at a light. I had a series of calls from . . . my family’s church. Just then it buzzed again, and I answered.

  “This is Laura Mori.”

  “Why don’t you answer your phone?”

  “Who is this?”

  “The Prince.” There was a pause. “Do you know who I am?”