by Burton, Mary
“When was the last night she was there?” Zoe asked.
“Last night. Monday.”
Hadley had been with Dawson. “Was everything all right at her house?”
Neil chewed the inside of his mouth. “I don’t know.”
Zoe deliberately softened her expression. “We aren’t trying to get anyone in trouble, Neil. We’re just trying to quickly find Skylar and her mother. We are very worried about them.”
“Did you ask Mr. Foster?” the boy countered. “He should be able to help.”
“Mr. Foster is in the hospital. He just came out of surgery,” Vaughan asked.
The boy’s worried expression took on a panicked edge. “Surgery? What happened?”
Zoe sidestepped the question. “Neil, were there problems in the Foster house?”
A ragged sigh shuddered through him. “Skylar said her parents fought a lot. That’s why she came to my house. She wanted to get away from the yelling.”
“What were they fighting about?” Vaughan asked.
“Mr. Foster wasn’t doing so well at work, and Mrs. Foster is obsessed with being perfect. It drives her crazy when the house, Sky, or her husband aren’t as meticulous as she is. The Fosters tried to hide their problems from Sky, but she knew them all.”
“Was there anyone who might have been threatening the family?” Vaughan asked.
“I don’t know about that.” Neil hesitated and then added, “Skylar said her mother has been really weird for the last couple of months. She’s been a nervous wreck and worried.”
“Did Skylar say what upset her mother?” Vaughan asked.
“She didn’t know. She said she asked her a bunch of times, but her mother said it was no big deal. Skylar said her mother always gets a little weird this time of year anyway.”
“Why?” Zoe asked.
“Skylar says she always gets sad and quiet near the end of summer.”
Marsha Prince had vanished in August. “You said she came to your house a few nights a week. What did Skylar do on the other nights?”
“She said homework and school functions.”
“Do you know the passcode to her phone?” Zoe asked.
“Yeah, it’s 1812. She’s a history buff.”
“Is there anyone who would want to hurt her?”
“I don’t know who. Sky keeps to herself,” Neil said. “We’re pretty tight.”
The kid saw the girl several nights a week but not all of them. “You have any trouble with her parents?” Zoe asked.
“No. I mean, I almost never talk to them. Mr. Foster is working, and Mrs. Foster is at the gym.”
“When’s the last time you saw them?” Vaughan asked.
“A few weeks ago. They seemed to be getting on fine. Mr. Foster gave me fifty bucks and asked me to take Skylar to a movie and dinner.”
“Thank you, Neil.” Vaughan wrote down his cell phone number on his business card and handed the boy his card. “If you hear of anything, call me. Doesn’t matter when. If you have to get up and leave class, do it.”
“Okay. What do I do now?” the boy asked. “Should I go and look for her?”
“No. You wait. And we’re going to keep looking,” Vaughan said.
“Do you think Sky is all right?” the boy asked. “She could be hurt or something.”
“We don’t know.” Zoe thought about the blood in the Foster house. “That’s why we’re moving as fast as we can to find her.”
“The more time that passes, the greater the chances that it won’t end well,” Vaughan said.
If his intent was to scare the boy, the kid’s pale, drawn face said he had done just that. “Call us if you hear anything,” Zoe said.
“Especially if she finds a way to reach you,” Vaughan said. “You won’t be protecting her by not telling us.”
“I’ll help. I promise.”
Vaughan obtained Jessica Harris’s address from the principal and instructed him to keep this conversation confidential and his eyes open.
Outside the school, the pair crossed to his vehicle and climbed inside.
“What did you think of Bradford?” Vaughan asked.
“He reads genuine,” she said.
“Yeah.”
As he backed out of the space, he called the forensic department and read off Skylar’s passcode to her phone. “I need any texts or emails that might seem a bit off or troublesome.”
Phone still pressed to his ear, Vaughan said to her, “He’s pulling the phone right now.”
“I’d bet money her life’s secrets are on that phone,” Zoe said.
They drove less than a block, and then Vaughan said, “Let me put you on speakerphone. I have Agent Spencer with me.”
“Hello, Agent Spencer. This is Bud Clary.”
“I’m surprised we found you in the lab,” she said.
“Just barely,” he said. “We just had the Fosters’ Lexus towed to the forensic lab, and I was checking messages. That code you gave me for Skylar’s phone worked.”
“I’m interested in both text and email messages but also any apps that have encrypted messaging options.” Several apps required an additional passcode to view communications. Keeping notes between friends seemed innocent enough until a predator twisted the app’s intent and started a dialogue with an unsuspecting teen. There had been several instances of older men communicating with young teens and grooming them for sex or prostitution.
“The texts seem fairly ordinary,” Bud said. “We have texts between Skylar and Neil Bradford. They tell each other how much they love the other or what they want to eat for dinner. Texts from Mom telling Skylar to be home for dinner.”
“What about the apps?” Zoe asked.
He read them off. “I can open all of them but one. It has a messaging feature but requires a passcode.”
“Try 1812.”
“Nope. Doesn’t work.”
Frustration elbowed at Zoe. “She was born in 2002. Try that.”
“No. Doesn’t work.”
“All right. We’ll see if we can track down her passcode. Thanks,” Zoe said.
He ended the call. “I have never been a fan of those apps.”
“Me either.”
He drove several more miles, turned on a couple of tree-lined side streets, and parked in front of Jessica Harris’s house. Like the Foster house, it was older, made of brick, and in an affluent neighborhood.
They climbed the brick steps and rang the bell. Moments later, the door opened to a woman in her midfifties with dark hair streaked with gray at the temples. “May I help you?”
Vaughan and Zoe held up their badges and introduced themselves. “Yes. We are investigating the disappearance of Hadley and Skylar Foster. You are?”
The woman appeared taken aback by the news, and it took a moment before she cleared her throat and said, “Margaret Harris.”
“We understand your daughter, Jessica, is a friend of Skylar’s?” Zoe asked.
Mrs. Harris’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “I saw it on the news. Jessica has not really seen Skylar since April.”
“What about at school?” Zoe asked.
“I’m sure they pass each other in the hallways, but that’s it. I don’t see how she could help you.”
“We are talking to everyone at this stage. Sometimes the smallest detail is important. Is Jessica home?” Vaughan asked.
“Yes. She had a fever this morning, so I kept her out.”
“We’d like to talk to her,” Zoe said.
“All right. Please come in.” She escorted them to a neatly furnished living room bathed in several hues of white and beige. It was as perfect as it was cold.
“Can I get either of you a coffee?” Mrs. Harris asked.
“No, thank you,” Vaughan said. “We just need to speak with Jessica.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Harris vanished into the house, her heeled shoes clicking on the tiled floor. Upstairs, a door opened and then closed.
“Let me interview Jes
sica,” Zoe said. “I think she’ll be more receptive to a female. And if not, you can give it a try.”
“She’s all yours.”
The door upstairs opened and closed, and this time two sets of footsteps sounded on the landing and down the stairs. Mrs. Harris appeared in the doorway along with her daughter, Jessica, a plump girl whose designer stressed jeans and loose-fitting burgundy top looked more uncomfortable than stylish. Long dark hair hung around her slumped shoulders. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose.
“Jessica,” Zoe said. “I’m with the FBI, and Detective Vaughan is with the Alexandria Homicide team.”
“I haven’t really spoken to Skylar since last spring,” she said.
“But you spent a lot of time with her, didn’t you?” Zoe said.
The girl glanced to her mother, who nodded. “Yeah, we were pretty good friends.”
“Why haven’t you talked to her since last spring?” Zoe asked.
“Because she started dating Neil, and he just took over her life.” Hints of bitterness sharpened the words.
Zoe glanced toward Vaughan, prompting him to say, “Mrs. Harris, would you join me in the kitchen? I have questions.”
“I’m not leaving my daughter,” she said.
“Agent Spencer is one of the best.” A smile warmed his stark features. “She is simply on a fact-finding mission. Our goal is to find Skylar.”
“People often remember different details if they aren’t influenced by others,” Zoe said. “It’s not about deception or ill intent, but I interview witnesses alone.”
“My daughter didn’t see anything.”
“Agreed,” Zoe said. “But she’s one of the very few people who knew Skylar well.”
“If your daughter was missing, we’d be handling it exactly the same,” Vaughan countered.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Jessica said. “I can answer a few questions.”
“If you feel uncomfortable at any point, call out to me,” Mrs. Harris said.
“I will.”
When the two left the room, Zoe closed the door. “Mind if we have a seat?”
“Sure.” Jessica sat in the middle of the sofa, and Zoe took the chair to her right.
“How long have you known Skylar?”
“We met last winter when she moved here. I’m new to the area, too. I think that’s why we really hit it off.”
“Why didn’t she see you after she started dating Neil?” Zoe asked.
“I don’t know. I called and called, but she always had an excuse. Finally, I gave up.”
“When was that?”
“April fifth. It’s her birthday. I got her a present and took it to her house. She accepted it but said she couldn’t visit because she had to help her mom. I knew that was a lie. Mrs. Foster never asks for help.”
“She’s not the first girl to get swept up in her first relationship. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I found Skylar’s social media accounts, and they look pretty normal. Were there others she didn’t tell her parents about?”
“Yeah. She just didn’t use her name.”
“What name did she use?”
“Wild Blue. Like the sky.” Saying the name out loud coaxed a quick, fleeting smile.
Zoe searched Wild Blue on a popular app designed for hiding communications and spotted the username. “Do you know her password?”
“I did, but I haven’t looked at her profile for a while. I’m not sure if it still works. Do you want it?”
“Yes, I do.”
Jessica rattled off the numbers and letters, which amounted to what appeared to be random numbers and initials.
Zoe texted the password to Bud Clary. He responded immediately, promising to get right back to her.
“Did Skylar ever talk about anyone other than Neil?”
“She used to talk to a guy on the phone.”
“Who?”
The girl shook her head. “She never told me his name.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“No. She was kind of secretive about him. Do you think he is the one that took Skylar?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Zoe said.
“Is Skylar going to be okay?”
Even if they found her alive, her life would never be the same. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday, August 13, 3:00 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Eight Hours after the 911 Call
When they stepped outside, Zoe slid on her sunglasses. The afternoon heat warmed her bones, and she was glad to be in the fresh air. Skylar and Hadley had been missing for about eight hours. In most cases like this, the perpetrator was not random but someone known to the family.
“Roger stated that Hadley is about to leave her husband. And Skylar liked to keep secrets, including a male friend no one had met,” Zoe said.
“So much for the perfect family.” As Vaughan unlocked the car and they both got inside, his phone rang. “It’s Hughes.” He answered and put her on speaker.
“We have Mrs. Foster’s recent credit card. We’ve developed a list of stores she frequented, and uniforms are running down security footage,” Hughes said.
“Key in on dates around the first week of July,” Zoe said. “We have a report that Hadley Foster became more agitated about that time.”
“Will do,” Hughes said.
“What about arrests? Do any of the Fosters have arrest records?” Vaughan asked.
“Mark did missionary work in high school and then married Hadley. From then onward, they were the perfect couple. Skylar is their only child. The girl has no record here, but I’m reaching out to police in Portland, Oregon.”
“Thanks. Keep us posted on the financials,” Vaughan said to Hughes. “I know the uniforms have been knocking on doors all morning, but I still want to talk to some of the neighbors.”
“Right,” Hughes said. “Will keep you posted.”
Twenty minutes later, Vaughan and Zoe were knocking on the door of the house that faced the Fosters’ backyard. It belonged to Rodney and Sarah Pollard.
She glanced at Vaughan and noticed the frown lines around his eyes had deepened. Cases involving a missing child were stressful to everyone working the case, but for a guy like Vaughan, with a teenage son, it had to hit close to home.
Seconds later, footsteps sounded in the brick two-story house. Like the Fosters’ house, the Pollards’ home had been built about sixty or seventy years ago. The lawn was small but carefully manicured.
The door opened to a petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair draped over narrow shoulders. Worry darkened her eyes as she looked up at Vaughan and then Zoe.
“Are you police?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Vaughan said. “This is FBI special agent Zoe Spencer, and I am Detective William Vaughan. We’re working the case together.”
“I’ve been worried sick since the officer knocked on my door this morning. Do you have any news about that poor family?”
“Mr. Foster is out of surgery and doing well. We’re still looking for Mrs. Foster and her daughter. May we come in?”
“Of course you can,” she said, stepping aside. “That poor family. My heart just breaks for them.”
The house was decorated with traditional Queen Anne furniture, similar to Uncle Jimmy’s tastes. The walls were painted a hunter green, more fitting with the colonial era of Alexandria, Virginia. There was a reproduction Matisse on the wall that she was tempted to look at more closely. Jimmy always said artists copying other painters signed their work in secret ways.
“How well do you know the Fosters?” Zoe asked.
“I see Hadley several times a week. We both are often coming and going at the same time, with just enough time to wave and smile. Last week, we were saying how nice it would be to go to the new wine bar on King Street. I don’t know Mark that well. He, like my husband, works long hours.”
“What do
es your husband do?” Vaughan asked.
“He’s a lawyer.”
“How long have you lived next to the Fosters?” Zoe asked.
“We moved here from Nevada about five years ago. And they moved here in January.”
“Do you mind if I have a look out the back of your house?” Zoe asked.
“Go right ahead. As you can see, there’s a very good view of the Fosters’ house.”
Zoe peered out the kitchen window, which overlooked the Foster house, and looked inside their family room. From this vantage point, it would have been impossible to see the front door, where Mark Foster had collapsed, or the interior entrance to the garage. And unless you were watching very closely, it would be easy to miss people passing in front of the narrow doorway visible from here.
“Did you notice a disturbance this morning?” Vaughan asked.
“I heard the family car pull out of their driveway very quickly. It was early. Maybe five or six.”
“Which was it?” Zoe asked.
“I slept through my alarm, which is unusual. The sun hadn’t risen.”
“The sun rose at 6:13 a.m.,” Zoe said.
“Then it must have been closer to five, because it was pretty dark.” She shook her head, trailing Zoe’s gaze with her own. “This is such a quiet neighborhood. We don’t see trouble like this.”
“Were you curious about what was happening at the Foster house?” Zoe asked. “Did the Fosters usually leave so early?”
“No, not that early,” she said. “I wanted to call over and make sure everything was okay, but that felt too nosy. People are entitled to leave early if they want to. Now I wished I’d at least called.”
“Did you see anyone looking at the house?” Vaughan asked. “Anyone in the neighborhood who didn’t belong?”
“What kind of person are you talking about?” Mrs. Pollard asked.
“Anyone that didn’t seem to fit,” Zoe said.
“No one today,” she said.
“What about yesterday or any day before?” Vaughan asked.
“Nothing. And I’m home all day and have a tendency to notice.” She pressed a trembling fingertip to her mouth, shaking her head. “This is just so terrible. I’ve spoken to my husband, Rodney, on the phone, and he says you can call him anytime today. He is more than willing to talk to you. But if he’d seen anything out of the ordinary, he’d have said something to me. And he didn’t.”
