Search for Her

by Rick Mofina

  “Look,” Price said, “the family has an online reward for information going, and last I looked it was close to thirty thousand. What if that were part of what’s happened? Maybe Caleb was involved? Or it’s a money-making fraud of some sort?”

  “But we don’t have anything pointing to that,” McDowell said. “We’ve consulted with the DA on the HIDTA team. We found no drugs, so no charges.”

  “The family could be covering up something,” Price said. “Keep it in mind.”

  “Something else to keep in mind,” Moore said. “You know that Grace Jarrett lost her first husband in a car accident, and John Marshall lost his first wife and teenage daughter in a sailing accident in San Diego Bay?”

  “We know,” Elsen said.

  “There was some suspicion about the Marshall drownings because of a large insurance benefit,” Moore said. “Denny Winslow’s our homicide guy who looked into it. He’s retired but I reached out to him, to get him to shed any light on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “We also have a list of potential witnesses,” McDowell said.

  “Witnesses?” Moore said.

  “Arising from a party the family gave just before they left San Diego. They might shed some light,” she said. “So, depending on how things go, we’ll be talking to people while we’re here in your yard.”

  Moore consulted his notes for the family’s address. “Sure, they live in Mission Hills. Let us know if we can help on that.”

  A knock sounded at the door, then it opened to a female officer. “Sorry to interrupt, Emery, but dispatch said you’d want to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Northeastern Division’s got a good sighting of a Ford Explorer and descriptions fitting your two juveniles in Rancho Bernardo.”

  Sixty-One

  San Diego, California

  Nearly trotting through the terminal forcing the others to keep up, Grace began making calls as soon as they landed. She tried McDowell and got her voice mail. She tried Elsen and got his, too. She left messages.

  On the escalator John scoured his phone for the latest local news stories for any updates.

  “Blake,” Grace said, “can you reach any of Caleb’s friends? Maybe they know something.”

  As she and the others hurried to the parking lot, Grace gave her bag to John so she was free to begin calling the reporters whose numbers she’d kept, leaving messages asking for the latest information on Riley’s sighting in San Diego.

  Finding Sherry’s white Chevrolet Traverse, they tossed their luggage in the back. With Blake and John in the rear seat, Grace in the front passenger seat, Sherry got behind the wheel and started out of the lot.

  “I got the gas station from a Trib story,” John said. “It’s a Mobil at San Diego Avenue and Washington. That’s near here.”

  “Want me to head there?” Sherry said.

  “Yes, we’ll ask around,” Grace said.

  Sherry threaded through the lot to the pay station then began navigating their way out.

  They got onto North Harbor Drive. Jets whined overhead as Grace took in the palms, expressways, the hills and skyline. She dropped her window to take a breath and make a plea. God, please let her be here alive and safe. They stopped at a traffic light.

  “None of Caleb’s friends know anything,” Blake said.

  “Keep trying,” Grace said. “Ask them if they know other friends.”

  Before the light changed, Grace’s phone rang with a San Diego number. “Yes,” she answered.

  “Is this Grace Jarrett, Riley Jarrett’s mother?” a woman asked.

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “Rhonda Carter, I’m with Top Story News in San Diego. I got your number from Drake DeKarlow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Drake said you were coming back to San Diego and looking for updates?”

  “We just arrived.”

  “Have police told you what’s happening with the sighting of your daughter?”

  “No, I mean she was seen at a gas station near Old Town, that’s all we know. Why, what’s happening?”

  “This is incredible timing, but they think they may have located her.”

  “What? Where?” Then to the others: “They might have her!” Then into her phone to Carter: “Do they have her? Is she okay?”

  “We don’t know. It’s breaking on our newsroom police scanners now,” Carter said.

  “Where? Where’s this happening?” Grace said.

  “It’s up in Rancho Bernardo, near or on Matinal Road—”

  “Rancho Bernardo, Matinal Road,” Grace said to Sherry. “Go there now!”

  “Hang on, we’ll pinpoint the address,” Carter said. “We’ve got a news team heading there, and we’d like to secure an exclusive inter—”

  Blake worked fast on his phone. “We’re thirty minutes away. Take the 163 north then take northbound I-15.”

  “Yes, yes, Rhonda,” Grace said, “whatever you’d like! Thank you. Please keep us posted. We’re on our way there now!”

  Sherry pushed her foot down on the accelerator.

  Sixty-Two

  Rancho Bernardo, San Diego, California

  The automatic garage door was half closed, nearly concealing the blue Ford Explorer inside as a male and female walked around the rear bumper.

  The photo was taken surreptitiously on an older phone. Grainy, most of the content was dimmed in shade but with enough clarity to see the female’s bright pink sneakers as she blocked the plate, allowing only the digit “3” to be seen.

  “I took it yesterday while walking Ollie,” Celia Donovan told San Diego Officer Manny Perez, standing in her kitchen studying the picture and checking his information on Clarke and Jarrett.

  A key fact was that the plate of the Clarke SUV was 2GAT123.

  “That’s the Fowlers’ home,” Donovan said, her collie resting at her feet. “Natalie and Brian left last week with the kids for a vacation in Canada. No one should be home. Those two trespassed, squatted, or invaded, whatever you call it. Lord knows what they’re doing in there.”

  Turning his radio down, Perez nodded for her to continue.

  “Then I saw the story on the news about the missing girl and her boyfriend and the missing car. I used to be with our neighborhood watch. That’s why I called. The missing car’s license plate is just like the letters and numbers of the one in the Fowlers’ garage.”

  “Do you know if the occupants are in the house now?” Perez asked.

  “Yes. I’ve been keeping my eye on it all morning. Come here.” She went to the window. “You can see their house from mine around the corner on Matinal right there. I saw the blue car go out and come back. They’re in there. Can only imagine what’s going on.” She continued watching the house from her window as Perez followed her gaze.

  “And how do you know the Fowlers, Mrs. Donovan?”

  “I’m a retired music teacher. I taught Jen and Clinton Fowler piano. I know the family.”

  “Would you have a phone number for them?”

  “I have Natalie and Brian’s numbers. I’ll get them. Want some coffee?”

  Perez declined and thanked her for the numbers.

  In the time that followed he returned to his car, which he’d parked far from the Fowler house but at an angle that allowed him to see it.

  He liked Rancho Bernardo. It was in the northern reaches of San Diego, amid canyons and rolling hills, a sprawling suburb of schools, trails, shopping centers, office parks and golf courses. Matinal Road meandered through a beautiful, tranquil section of a terraced neighborhood. A good place to raise a family, he thought as he got to work.

  First, he updated his dispatcher and commander on what was emerging. Then, using his mobile computer he confirmed Brian and Natalie Fowler were the residents, ran a call history of the F
owlers’ address, checked for any registered guns, ran their registered vehicles. He also ran the family names in several databases for criminal history or outstanding warrants. Nothing. The family and address were clear.

  Perez then reached the Fowlers who were visiting relatives in Vancouver, British Columbia. They were alarmed at a call from San Diego police, asking if anyone should be in their home—friends, relatives, service calls.

  “Absolutely not,” Brian Fowler said after Perez explained. “I can’t believe this! We just had our home security repaired before this trip. It was working fine and should’ve been activated.”

  “People find ways to bypass them,” Perez said. “Are there any firearms of any kind in the house?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll check things out and keep you posted.”

  Perez updated his sergeant. SWAT was not needed, but more units were dispatched to contain the area and choke off all possible exits.

  “And Manny, a heads-up,” the sergeant said. “This case has profile. One of our detectives, two from Las Vegas, and an FBI agent are on the way.”

  “Copy that.”

  Soon marked units, careful not to use lights or sirens, quietly began taking points on Matinal, the street above it and the two nearest cross streets. The detectives joined them as news crews were arriving. The media guys don’t miss much, Perez thought.

  Neighbors were kept back to gawk from lawns and driveways in the distance, guessing at what was happening.

  Perez spoke into his radio. “All set.”

  With everyone in place Perez and Kelly Cardona, another officer, went to the Fowlers’ front door and rang the bell.

  They heard voices inside then sudden movement. Shielding his eyes at a window, Perez glimpsed figures running and reached for his radio.

  “They’re coming your way, Denny!”

  The rear door to the house burst open, ejecting two people, a young male and female. Officer Denny Hong tackled the male on a patch of grass, got him on his stomach, smoothly handcuffing him.

  The female broke free of Officer Jan Lymon’s grip and escaped over a fence. Lymon got on her radio as she pursued the female with Perez and Cardona joining. From the front sidewalk they glimpsed the suspect busting through hedges, scaling fences, darting around pools as dogs barked and a car alarm sounded.

  Coming to the last house on the block with Lymon behind her and now three officers blocking her way, the female dropped to her knees on the front lawn, breathless, her shirt torn.

  “Get on your stomach, hands behind your back!” Cardona said.

  Sobbing, the girl complied.

  Cardona patted her down then handcuffed her as Perez read her Miranda rights.

  Standing back behind a parked police unit, a newspaper photographer, a TV camera operator and several neighbors with phones out recorded the arrest.

  Sixty-Three

  Rancho Bernardo, San Diego, California

  Sherry steered her SUV to the closest police car.

  They’d arrived to see officers walking the handcuffed suspects down Matinal Road toward Perez’s parked unit.

  Grace bounded from Sherry’s car, hurrying to them with her family and Sherry close behind.

  The male suspect was nearer, and Grace called to him. “Caleb!”

  The news cameras turned to her.

  “Stay back, ma’am!” Perez shot out his palm.

  “Caleb!”

  With an officer gripping his upper arm the boy lifted his head, looked at Grace.

  He wasn’t Caleb Clarke.

  “What’s this? Who’re you?” Ignoring Perez’s warning, Grace moved closer down the street to where a female officer was escorting the girl whose head was bowed.

  “Riley!” Grace called to her.

  “Ma’am, do not come any closer!” Perez warned her.

  “Riley!” Grace yelled.

  The girl lifted her head to Grace.

  But it wasn’t Riley.

  Grace froze in her tracks, tears springing to her eyes.

  “Grace, come back,” John said.

  “Oh my God,” Grace said, reeling, looking about. “Where’s Riley? RILEY!” she screamed.

  “Grace!” McDowell, huddled with investigators at another car, noticed the disturbance as more police and news cameras arrived at the scene. She went to Grace and took her hand.

  “Michelle! Where’s Riley?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not them.”

  Grace’s heart sank. McDowell, John and Blake steadied her.

  “She’s not here?” Sherry asked.

  “No, I’m sorry,” McDowell said.

  John cursed. Sherry groaned. Blake’s face whitened as he looked away.

  “I don’t understand,” Grace said.

  “The information pointed to them but it’s not them,” McDowell said. She opened the front passenger door of her rental, parked near a San Diego patrol car. “You guys wait here. I’ll be back.”

  News cameras sprang up everywhere. The two suspects were in patrol cars being questioned, just as the garage door at the Fowlers’ home opened, revealing a blue Ford Explorer. The cameras zoomed in. The plate was not 2GAT123. It was not the Clarkes’ SUV. Police radios crackled.

  Grace and her family heard dispatches spilling out about the suspects.

  “...subject one, Patrone, Vincent, DOB—” There was static. “Subject two, Snell, Jessie Ann, DOB, stand by—” More static. “Both have outstanding warrants from Escondido...stand by...”

  Sherry moved her hand up and down Grace’s arm to comfort her. John had taken her hand, both of them telling her not to give up hope, that they were going to find Riley. But Grace couldn’t hear them. As the scene whirled around her she sat in silence, unable to comprehend what was happening, time standing still until McDowell returned.

  “All right,” she said. “It appears these two have no connection to Riley. They’re nineteen and seventeen from Escondido. They search social media for posts from people going on vacation then case their property and break in. They trashed this place, stole items and sold them. Nothing to do with Riley and Caleb.”

  “Where is she?” Grace said, her voice weak.

  “Listen, Grace,” McDowell said. “We have other leads here and in Nevada. I know this is difficult. Get some rest, hold tight.”

  “Hold tight?” Grace spat back at McDowell. “Why didn’t you tell me about this when we were in Nevada? I thought you were a good person, Michelle—I thought you understood!”

  McDowell had no words that would ease Grace’s pain.

  “Thank you,” John said. “We’ll be at our house. You have the address, you have our numbers.”

  “We do,” McDowell said. Then, before leaving: “Don’t lose hope.”

  As John, Grace, Blake and Sherry started back to Sherry’s car, the media emerged. Microphones and cameras bloomed around them.

  “Mrs. Jarrett, Adam Vedoe, Top Story News.” His voice was urgent, excited. “Obviously police did not find your missing daughter. Can you share your thoughts at this time?”

  “I want to find Riley. That’s my only thought,” Grace said.

  “We understand the reward fund for information has now surpassed thirty thousand dollars—will that help?” another reporter asked.

  “Anything will help,” John said.

  “If Riley or Caleb Clarke or anyone with information is watching this report, what do you want them to know?” Vedoe asked.

  Grace stopped and looked into all the cameras.

  “Riley, we love you. Please come home or call me. Caleb, please, if you are with her, please bring her home. Please—” Grace gasped then broke into huge sobs. “Please, please, I need you home.”

  Sixty-Four

  Mission Hills, San Diego, California

  I
t was a somber drive across the city to Grace and John’s house. Along the way, Sherry stopped at Ralphs to get a few groceries for the family before they reached Mission Hills just north of downtown.

  They lived in an upper middle-class neighborhood of beautiful homes with compact landscaped yards and vibrant gardens. Their two-story stucco house with the red tile roof was on a quiet street lined with Mexican fan and queen palms. The For Sale sign stood like a sentry on the front lawn, pulling Grace back through time.

  Can we really afford to buy it? she’d said to Tim.

  Can we afford not to? He’d smiled.

  We were so happy here.

  As Sherry parked in the driveway, Grace took stock, thinking how her dream home was now a mausoleum for a life she once lived.

  “You all right?” John said.

  “You know what this all means now?” Grace said. “If Riley’s not here in San Diego, then Rykhirt—”

  “Don’t think about that now,” John said. “We don’t know.”

  “But, John...” Grace’s voice broke.

  “McDowell said they have other leads. We have to be strong.”

  Grace said nothing, tears rolling down her face.

  Everyone went inside. Sherry got Grace comfortable in the family room. John and Blake got their bags and groceries while Sherry made tea and brought her half an egg salad sandwich, Grace’s favorite.

  Grace didn’t touch the tea or the sandwich.

  “You need to eat and get some rest,” Sherry said.

  Grace stared out the window with its view of the city and the planes lifting off and landing at San Diego International. “I should never have left her in the RV.”

  “Stop beating yourself up.”

  “It was a mistake to leave Nevada.”

  “Don’t do this. You followed your heart. You’re here. Get some rest. Stay positive. We’re going to find her.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. Have some tea. Eat.”

  Grace looked at Sherry. “How’s your aunt?”

  “The same,” Sherry said.

  “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be okay with John and Blake.”