by Rick Mofina
“Why did you have to talk to them?”
“To clarify some points.”
“What points?” She could hear voices and another phone ringing on McDowell’s end.
“Grace, I’m sorry I have to go.”
After ending the call Grace turned to Sherry.
“Thank God it’s not her,” Sherry said.
“My relief comes at the price of another family’s devastation.”
“It’s horrible, I know, and I’m sorry,” Sherry said. “Did McDowell have more news? Does Caleb know anything? Should we tell them about the names in the play, just to be safe?”
“The play, you’re right, I should’ve—” Grace shook her head as she refocused. “Caleb’s not saying anything but detectives are talking to him. She said John and Blake should be home soon.”
“Good.”
“And McDowell sounded hopeful because they’re starting to recover lost security video at the Sagebrush.”
Sherry looked at Grace. “New security video from the truck stop?” Sherry said. “That’s good, right?”
“Yes, you’re right.” Wiping her face, Grace stood, as if buoyed, as if stronger. When her phone vibrated with a text, she looked at the screen. “It’s the reporter from Riverside, the good guy. I’ll see what he knows.”
“You do that, and I’ll go downstairs and make us some fresh tea.”
Sherry left as Grace looked at the message from Elliott Downey at the Press-Enterprise.
Would you have time for a quick call?
Grace began a text to him before she was stopped dead by a loud, shrill scream.
Eighty-Seven
San Diego, California
Driving home from police headquarters with Blake would take no longer than fifteen minutes, but John had lost his hold on time.
Before leaving he’d texted Grace telling her they would be home soon. They’d gone about six blocks and John was still numb from Elsen’s and McDowell’s searing accusations, then the waiting. Then being told the news about a body and Caleb’s arrest had rolled over him with tsunami force.
He was relieved the dead person near Baker was not Riley, leaving him to cling to the hope that if she was with Caleb they would find her alive. It was all he had, because his life—his tattered career—was on the verge of turning to ashes.
John didn’t know how those Las Vegas detectives had found out everything but they had him nailed—making him feel that he was capable of committing any crime. It didn’t matter that he’d told them the truth. That Lana’s and Courtney’s deaths were an accident, that he’d always feel responsible for the tragedy—because I am and I’ll never forgive myself for it. It didn’t matter that he’d made bad investments; that he’d borrowed money from SoCal SoYou, intent on repaying it before they found out.
He was not perfect.
But when Grace and Riley came into his life, it was a chance to start over and Pittsburgh would be where they would do it. Yes, he took out big insurance policies because if the worst happened, he wanted to ensure that he and Blake wouldn’t have to go through the agony of grieving and worrying about money at the same time ever again. The detectives seemed to overlook that he had large policies on himself and Blake, too—to provide the same peace of mind for Grace and Riley. That wasn’t illegal. John was doing everything he could to protect everyone, but he’d failed—that was what he was guilty of. That was the truth.
But Elsen and McDowell didn’t care. It looked suspicious.
A horn sounded behind them. The light had turned green.
They drove a few more blocks when John’s phone rang. Hoping it was Grace, he answered without looking at the number.
“Is this John Marshall, the stepfather of Riley Jarrett?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Libby Roth with the Associated Press. Sir, I’m sorry to be calling at this time, but we understand that the body of a young female has been discovered in San Bernardino County and—”
“Yes, it’s not our daughter.”
“Excuse me?”
“Police have confirmed that it’s not Riley and I have no comment. It’s not a good time.”
“But Mr. Marshall, sir—”
John ended the call and kept driving.
A few blocks later he turned to Blake who’d been silent and staring straight ahead. John had no idea what the detectives had asked him.
“How did it go for you, son?”
Blake didn’t turn, his face sober. “I need a lawyer, Dad.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Dad, I owe some bad people a lot of money. I did a bad thing.”
John pulled over and stared at Blake who, with tears in his eyes, told him about his $22,000.00 online gambling debt, the drugs in the RV.
“The police dog smelling drugs in the RV—it was all true?”
“Yes.”
“And you told the police all of this?”
“Yes, they already knew some, and I told them that I think Riley was kidnapped because we never transported the drugs, the drugs are gone and I still owe the money.”
John cursed. “Do police think she was kidnapped?”
“I don’t know, Dad. First, they must’ve thought it was the creep in the video, now Caleb. I don’t know. But they said that tomorrow at two, I have to report to the FBI office up in Sorrento for an interview, and a whole bunch of drug cops will be there and if I don’t show up they could arrest me. Dad, they want me to give them names.”
“Do you have names?”
“A couple first names, or nicknames, maybe.” Tears rolled down Blake’s face. “It would’ve been better if I drowned, not Courtney.”
John looked at him. “Don’t say that.” He took in a hard breath and let it out slowly. “We’re going to sort this out. Don’t say a word to Grace, not now. Leave that with me. We need to get home. I’ll make some calls, we’ll sort this out.”
John shook his head, raked both hands through his hair then stared at Blake for a long, anguished moment before he continued driving.
* * *
Coming up on Mission Hills, John tried reaching Grace again to let her know they were minutes away. She never responded to his earlier text so this time he called, but there was no answer. Odd.
He knew Grace had Sherry with her this morning while he and Blake were with police. He tried Sherry’s phone. No answer.
What’s going on?
He accelerated the rest of the way through Mission Hills, spotting the For Sale sign on their front yard but not seeing Sherry’s white Traverse as they pulled into the driveway.
Sherry wouldn’t leave Grace alone.
John pressed the remote garage door opener, the door lifted. Grace’s Toyota Camry was gone.
“Looks like no one’s home,” Blake said when they went to the door.
“This is strange,” John said as they stepped inside. “Grace! Sherry!”
The house was silent.
“Blake, check upstairs. I’ll check down here.”
John went to the kitchen, his office, the living room, dining room, calling and searching—
“Dad!”
Blake was on his knees at the bottom of the stairs, examining the wall and the steps. Glossy red streaks and still-wet droplets.
“This is blood.”
Eighty-Eight
San Diego, California
“Here we go again,” Cliff Lawton said over the speakerphone from the Sagebrush. “More recovered footage with more information.”
At San Diego police headquarters, McDowell and Elsen concentrated on their screens, watching. Riley enters the crowded food court, waving and walking directly to a woman who’d waved to her.
The woman is wearing shorts, a T-shirt, a wide-brimmed white sun hat and oversize sunglasses obscu
ring her face. But it’s clear Riley knows her. They embrace, speak. The woman produces her phone, offering it to Riley who declines it. The woman speaks briefly into her phone while pointing before she and Riley begin leaving the food court.
Camera angles change, tracking them as they reach an exit.
Angles change again to the exterior, tracking them walking from the exit and entering the parking lot. Angles change again, tracking them walking to a red vehicle. The woman opens the passenger door for Riley then gets in behind the wheel. The vehicle is a red SUV. Angles change as it wheels through the lot and exits the Sagebrush complex. The last images show the vehicle heading for the interstate exit for southbound traffic.
“This is it!” McDowell said. “Who is that woman?”
The image of the plate was unclear, the distance too great.
“Cliff we’ve got to get that plate,” Elsen said. “Do you have an LPR? Can you pull up, freeze and enlarge it so we can read that plate?”
Lawton and Travis Quinn talked in the background.
“Yes, we can. Working on it now,” Lawton said. “Stand by.”
Eighty-Nine
San Diego, California
Blinking back tears, her mind whirling, Grace pushed her Camry beyond the speed limit eastbound on Interstate 8. A horn sounded. She was weaving. Correcting her path, she let out a breath. She couldn’t believe that while anguishing about Riley she now had to worry about Sherry.
Grace replayed the chaos from moments ago; how she’d aborted her text to the reporter in Riverside when she’d heard the scream. She rushed from the bedroom to find Sherry at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the floor, holding her head, blood webbing from her scalp down her cheek.
“My uncle texted me. My aunt’s condition has worsened,” Sherry had told her. “I was looking at my phone on the top of stairs, missed a step and fell down. I’m sorry, Grace, but I should get back to Utah. I’ll go home and pack for the next flight. I’m so sorry, Grace.”
“No, you’re not making sense.” Grace examined her head, got a towel. “I’m taking you to the hospital now. You may have a concussion.”
“No, I’m fine, Grace, really.” Sherry stood. “I’m sorry I startled you, and having to leave like this.”
“No, Sherry. I’m driving you to the hospital. Stay here, I’ll get my purse.”
When Grace got to the kitchen counter, her phone rang and she answered. “This is Martin Clarke, Caleb’s father in Algiers.”
“Yes, hello, Martin.”
“Grace, the FBI’s told me that Caleb was located and arrested in Nevada.”
“Yes, do you know if Riley was with him?”
“No, I know nothing. It’s why I’m calling.”
“Caleb didn’t tell you where Riley is?”
“How could he? They won’t let me talk to Caleb. Do you know anything more?”
“Not really. I’d like to talk, but this isn’t a good time.” She glanced around, collected her purse and car keys then caught her breath.
Through the window she saw Sherry pulling away in her SUV. Overwhelmed, Grace moved quickly through the house to the garage.
“Listen, Martin. From what I know, Caleb’s okay. I’ll see what I can find out and we’ll talk again as soon as possible. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
As she trotted to her car, Grace’s phone had vibrated with a text from John. He was with Blake at police headquarters and they’d be home soon. She didn’t have time to respond. She got into her car and pulled away. Sherry shouldn’t be driving when she could have a concussion and be disoriented. Now here Grace was, threading freeway traffic, searching each lane in vain for Sherry’s white Traverse while checking the shoulders for accidents, relieved she didn’t spot any.
Taking her exit, Grace moved north on the 163.
Soon she was in Mission Valley and the beautiful section of condos and town houses where Sherry lived. Turning onto her street, she came up to Sherry’s town house but there was no sign of her white car on the street. Maybe it was in the garage, or in the back.
Grace found a place to park down the block. She turned off the engine and her phone vibrated with another text from John.
Where are you? Are you OK?
She responded: I’m OK. I’m at Sherry’s. Tell you more later. Sorry. Gotta go.
Then it vibrated again, this time with a text from Jazmin at the search site in Nevada. Grace ignored it, put her phone away, got out of the car, walked quickly to Sherry’s door and rang the bell.
While waiting she took in the two-story town house, recalling how happy Sherry was when she got it.
Grace could hear movement on the other side of the door, assuaging her concerns for it meant Sherry was home, safe. She just had to insist she go to the hospital.
The door opened. The woman before her was not Sherry. She was an older woman Grace didn’t know. “Yes?” the woman asked.
“Hi, I’m here for Sherry.”
“Sherry? Sorry, you’ve got the wrong address. There’s no Sherry here.”
Grace was puzzled. “No, she lives here. This is her town house.”
“No, I’m sorry, you’re mistaken.”
“There’s no mistake. Sherry Penmark.” Grace looked at the house number, 28164. “This is her address.”
“No, no one by that name lives here. Have a nice day.”
The door began closing until Grace’s hand shot out, stopping it.
“Excuse me,” the woman said.
“Hold it. I’m her friend Grace Jarrett, who are you?”
Ninety
San Diego, California
An enlarged sharp image filled their screens.
It took several long minutes for Lawton and Quinn to capture the entire plate of the vehicle that drove away from the Sagebrush with Riley Jarrett.
McDowell’s eyes locked on to it as she recited the sequence into her phone. “California tag beginning Nine-Queen-Ocean-...”
San Diego PD’s dispatcher was running the plate through state motor vehicle databases while McDowell and Elsen waited.
“Comes back as a 2021 red Hyundai Santa Fe, the RO is United Liberty Coast Corp. That’s a national auto rental agency.”
“We need an address for where it’s registered,” Elsen said.
The dispatcher provided the information. “Address is Admiral Boland Way, San Diego, that’s at the airport.”
McDowell and Elsen exchanged looks. “An airport rental,” McDowell said. “The woman could’ve come from anywhere and taken her on a plane to anywhere.”
“We’ve got work to do,” Elsen said.
Urgent calls were made. With the help of Emery Moore and the San Diego police, the FBI and the district attorney, the investigators made their case of exigent—life-and-death—circumstances in the suspected abduction of a minor. It enabled them to get rapid sign-off for a warrant to email the legal and security divisions at United Liberty Coast Corp.’s head office in San Francisco, compelling them to immediately retrieve and provide all information concerning the person, or persons, who rented and would’ve had possession of the red Hyundai Santa Fe on the date Riley Jarrett vanished from the Sagebrush.
The rental corporation had been alerted, was cooperating. To save time they started work on obtaining the information they’d need to release the instant they received the warrant.
While waiting, Elsen said: “The vehicle was heading south and likely crossed into California.”
“Right,” McDowell said. “We’ll ask California Highway Patrol if they’ve made any stops.”
“And check plate readers on toll gates.”
A short time later, Elsen received a call from Phil Matson, director of security for United Liberty Coast in San Francisco.
“We have the information you requested,” Matson said. “I’ll give it to you
now, and we’re emailing the records to you.”
“Thanks, Phil, go ahead,” Elsen said, his pen poised over his notepad.
Ninety-One
San Diego, California
The woman’s face tightened as she held the door. “Please step back,” she told Grace.
Grace inched back. “But I need to find Sherry.”
Glaring at her, the woman called out: “Andrew!”
A moment later a man came to the door. He was older than the woman, had wild white hair, a beard and looked like a wizard, Grace thought, as she got her phone and scrolled through it.
“What is it?” he said.
“This woman’s got the wrong address and won’t leave.”
“Oh, and why’s that?” he said.
“She says Sherry somebody lives here,” the woman said.
“Sherry Penmark.” Grace held up her phone with Sherry’s photo.
The man squinted at it then nodded, nearly smiling. “Ahh. A misunderstanding,” he said. “My cousin here’s visiting and she’s somewhat protective, I admit. But yes, Sherry lived here.”
“Lived?” Grace said.
“You never mentioned this, Andrew,” the woman said.
“I didn’t see the need,” he said to her, then to Grace, “I’m a history professor at the university. Recently, I returned from an extended sabbatical in Norway—too long, and too cold, really. While I was away I used a house-sitting service. Sherry was my house sitter. What we have is an honest mistake. I’m sorry about that. Are you her friend?”
Stunned and baffled, Grace didn’t move. “I don’t understand. So Sherry doesn’t own this property?”
“No, I assure you, it’s mine.” The professor smiled. “You might try her other address.”
“Other address? But I thought this was her address. I do need to reach her. There’s been an accident.”
