Mommy, May I

by A. K. Alexander

  Frankie mustered all her courage before flushing the toilet, taking a deep breath, and leaving the bathroom. It was time to become friends with this psycho. It might be her only chance for survival.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The ringing phone jolted Tyler awake. His vivid dream about Jane Doe vaporized into the night air, as his eyes opened. The clock on the nightstand read three A.M. At this hour, any call had to be something bad. He picked it up. “Yeah?”

  “Sorry to wake you.” It was Loretta. “We’ve got a situation. Patrick Kiley’s fifteen-year-old daughter Frances Kiley has been reported missing. Doesn’t look good. Santa Barbara doesn’t have their own profiler, so they called me for one. I’ve pulled some recent reports, and a couple of girls have gone missing in the same area in the last two years. This thing is going to be huge by morning. There’s already a team of Santa Barbara agents on this, and if you want to take any of your own CASKU team on up, I’ll give the go-ahead.”

  “Shit,” he muttered. “Kiley, as in . . .”

  “As in the daughter of the mogul and the model, Helena Shea, who was recently detained by the LAPD for the murder of the girl’s step-mother. This one’s gonna be sticky. I’ve arranged for a plane to get you up there. How soon can you be at LAX?”

  “One hour.”

  “Listen, Ty, the police will be hounding those folks, and with the media hoopla already in full swing, you’ll have to tread softly.”

  “Why me?”

  “‘Cause, honey, you’re the best.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Know you will. Good luck. Keep me posted.”

  Tyler hung up the phone and tried to pull his thoughts together. He went into the kitchen, turning on the coffeemaker. Quickly showered and dressed. He poured his bitter brew, and started to head for the door, when he felt a strange need to call Claire Travers. He tried hard to shake it but couldn’t. He had no reason to call her, did he? For God’s sake, she was a tabloid reporter, and the fact that the press hadn’t yet heard about the girl’s disappearance gave him a leg up, at least for a few hours. Claire was only supplying him with whatever information she had on the porn star Bridgett Core. But the feeling wouldn’t dissipate, and Tyler had learned not to ignore his feelings.

  “Okay, okay,” he said aloud. He flipped open his cell, pulled the number she’d given him up, and dialed her.

  “Crazy,” he muttered. I could lose my job for this.

  “Hello?” came her soft, muffled voice after the fourth ring.

  “Claire, it’s me, Tyler Savoy.”

  “Tyler? What . . .?”

  “Don’t ask. I’m not certain why I’m doing this, but something tells me that you can help me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Can you meet me in Santa Barbara in the morning?”

  “Sure, I’m due up there anyhow to follow up on the Helena Shea story. But why are you going? Is it about the case?”

  Tyler took a deep breath before confiding in this virtual stranger. “Please keep this confidential until it breaks in the morning, Claire, but Frances Kiley has gone missing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Police tromped in and out of Patrick’s house; search crews with dogs combed the perimeters; friends, neighbors, and family phoned once more; and a rescue helicopter circled the surrounding area, illuminating the cliff-side. It had started raining in the middle of the night, making the search more difficult. Worst of all, the media masses were back for more blood, speculating about all the activity.

  A lanky police detective with beady eyes stood in the family room with Helena and Patrick. “We’ve got an agent coming in from the FBI. He’s with the division we call CASKU.”

  “CASKU?” Helena asked.

  “The Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit.”

  “What?” Patrick said in amazement. “What do we need him for? She hasn’t been . . . I mean she isn’t dead,” he insisted.

  “Mr. Kiley, your child has been missing for more than two hours. Since we haven’t turned up anything on the cliffs or in the sea, foul play could very well be involved. Finding her backpack also indicates something is probably amiss. We’re required, at this point, to ask these investigators to assist us. I don’t want to add to your alarm, but we do also have search parties looking for her body out at sea.”

  The detective quickly apologized and left. Another officer showed up—this one older, shorter, and barrel-chested, and not any more sensitive than the others. He asked the same questions they’d already answered a dozen times. Helena felt ready to collapse, swimming in a surreal nightmare, which suddenly became much worse when she heard Detective David Collier’s voice.

  “Okay, people, what have we got here?” he bellowed. The officers from SBPD all looked at him as if he were some bizarre apparition.

  Helena’s lawyer, James verbalized all of their thoughts. “What are you doing here, Collier? This is way out of your jurisdiction.”

  “I think this disappearance is some type of ploy, and it’s all tied into my murder investigation. Special circumstances are indicated, prompting me to be here, and a judge has granted me permission.” Collier handed James a subpoena, cleared first by a Los Angeles judge and another in Santa Barbara.

  “This is bogus,” said James. “There is no way in hell you got this signed by two judges in the middle of the night. I’ll tell you something else, Detective, when I find out how you pulled this little stunt, and when I find that this piece of paper is bullshit, I’ll have your badge! You’ll never work on another police force in this country. Hell, you won’t be able to get a job doing mall security.”

  Helena watched James’s face turn purple.

  “Be my guest,” Collier chortled. “Now I need to speak with Ms. Shea then Mr. Kiley.”

  “No, you don’t,” James shot back.

  “It’s all right. We have nothing to hide,” Helena said, thinking that maybe this hothead detective could help. All she cared about at present was getting Frankie back.

  “Great. Is there somewhere we could go?” Collier asked.

  Patrick pointed to the library, the one room in his home not filled with police. “You don’t have to do this, Helena,” James told her.

  “I know.”

  “In fact, I don’t believe he has a legal right to be here.”

  “I haven’t—we haven’t done anything wrong.” She glanced at Patrick. “Maybe if he realizes this by questioning us, he can turn things around and help find Frankie and whoever really did kill Leeza.”

  “Don’t count on it, sweetheart. This guy is after your blood. I’m going in there with you.”

  “Fine.”

  Patrick watched as the three entered the library, closing the doors behind them. As Helena and James sat down, Detective Collier paced back and forth.

  “Come on, Collier, quit the dog-and-pony show. What the hell do you want?” James asked.

  “I’ll tell you what I want, Counselor. I want to see justice served. I’ve got a dead woman, a burn victim, and now a missing child. What’s the link in all three cases? Your client and her lover.”

  “We are not lovers.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Collier, can’t you see you’re digging yourself into a hole that you’ll never get out of?” James said.

  “No, Counselor, what I see are some similarities to another case, where a child wound up dead but the small-town police force did such a shoddy job pursuing it that an arrest won’t ever be made. That’s not going to happen here. I guarantee foul play is involved, and your client is in on it. After all, Ms. Shea, what did your daughter know about Ms. Kiley’s murder? Maybe she overheard you talking with your lover, her father. Maybe she knew what you two did. I’ll bet she even knows who you hired to do this! Or did she know that you started the fire that nearly killed your so-called friend? Why don’t you come clean, make it easy on yourself. I can almost guarantee we can make a deal with the district attorney.”

&nbs
p; “I did not kill Leeza Kiley!” Helena screamed. “And I would never harm my daughter or anyone for that matter! Get the hell out of here!”

  “Your client seems to have an anger-management problem, Counselor. I’ve taken note of that before. A jury won’t think too much of her with that temper. I’ll bet a couple of dozen people outside this room heard that little outburst.”

  James rose abruptly from his chair, “You’re harassing my client, Detective!”

  At that moment, the library doors opened abruptly. A tall man with dark hair and chiseled facial features walked in and said, “Jesus Christ, I might’ve known.” The man confronted the detective. “Collier, you’re way out of line.”

  “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. I don’t have to go anywhere, Savoy. I’m conducting an investigation here, and you’re interrupting an interview.”

  “More like an interrogation. I’m FBI, Collier. I outrank you. I’m going to have to ask you to head on back down the coast to your own jurisdiction. CASKU is working this case. Your case is about one hundred fifty miles south.”

  “Screw you, Savoy!” Collier stormed out of the room.

  The agent turned to face James and Helena. “Talk about temper. As you witnessed, Detective Collier and I are not exactly close. He usually sends his goodbyes to me in the impolite form of a profane action with his middle finger. At least he was a little more creative this time.”

  Helena smiled for the first time in days. Whoever this man was, she immediately liked him. She stood as he stuck out his hand.

  “Hello, I’m Tyler Savoy. I’m the agent they sent up from CASKU. I’m sure that the officers already explained who I am and what I do.”

  “Somewhat.” Helena nodded. Patrick came into the library and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Part of my job is to profile what we call UNSUBS, meaning unknown subjects, or, in layman’s terms, the criminal.” He paused and the sound of his voice took on a more compassionate tone. “In this case, I will be profiling the type of person who might have taken your daughter. I need to go over a few details with the officer in charge, then I’ll get back with you folks. Why don’t you try to relax for a moment? I know how disconcerting Detective Collier can be.”

  “Thank you,” Helena said, watching as the agent left them in the library.

  “I’ll get you some coffee,” James said.

  Helena turned to face Patrick. “Is Frankie coming back? Please tell me she is.”

  “Yes,” Patrick whispered. “We have to believe that. There’s no other alternative.”

  Helena collapsed into his arms and cried. All barriers were down between them now, no room anymore for old hostilities and resentments. They were two parents who loved their daughter, and wanted only to see her again—alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Throughout the morning, several people at the magazine came up congratulating Claire for a story well written. Though she smiled and thanked them, she wasn’t proud of her work. The story somehow left a void deep in her stomach. Even getting the front page gave her no sense of joy. When she’d found out the Kiley kid had disappeared, she’d tried to stop the presses. She knew how her work would impact the girl’s family and felt like she was rubbing salt in their wounds. How miserable for her parents.

  She looked at her watch. Damn, she was running behind. She had to get up north. She’d been trying to gather her information on Bridget Core and finally had everything, including the interview with the mother, which had been dictated onto an old steno pad.

  It was a quarter past nine. She should’ve left by now, but she had to talk to Paul, her editor, about the Kiley story. She wanted off of it. Her conscience was bothering her.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Travers? You’re supposed to be up in Santa Barbara with the rest of the buzz. Get on out that door. I’m not paying you to dick around,” said Paul Vernezza, her very Italian, very arrogant boss.

  “I’ve got a problem with this story.”

  “Problem?”

  “Haven’t we attacked these people enough? We’ve already convicted and tried them. Let’s get all the facts before we hang them!”

  “What you’ve got, Claire, is a problem with me—and it’s a problem that’ll only get bigger the longer you sit around here. You’re supposed to get anything that sounds good, and if they’re facts—wonderful! We’re not destroying lives; we report on the scandals of people destroying their own lives. They’re public figures, and as such aren’t entitled to their privacy. Privacy, schmivacy. They do dirt; we dig it up. Now go, dig!”

  “Take me off of it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He stroked his long black mustache, a nervous tic. Claire knew that his tough guy act was simply that, an act.

  “It’s personal. I really need to be off of this story.”

  “Hell, no! Chop, chop, Travers. I’ve had enough of your crap. Let’s go!”

  Claire slammed down her fists on top of her desk. “Look! I told you I can’t write this story!”

  “Ha, ha! Very funny. Now, get me the dirt on that Shea woman and her ex and their kid. Get it today!”

  Before she had time to think about the consequences, Claire walked around to the front of her cubicle where Paul Vernezza stood. She stabbed the eraser end of her pencil into his chest and yelled, “You know what, Paul? Get your own dirt! I’ve got better things to do.” She grabbed her purse off the back of her chair and stormed down the hall.

  “Travers, get your ass back here! I’m your boss! I said . . .”

  Over her shoulder, she replied, “I heard what you said. But guess what? I quit! I’ll be back for my things later.” She smiled, elated and really proud of herself. Claire marched from the building where she’d worked for nearly eight years. Now it was over, just like that. No worries. Something else was around the corner, she was sure—something a great deal bigger and better. She got behind the wheel of her Camry, and before long, she was driving north on the Ventura Freeway, headed straight for Tyler Savoy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “I’m glad you like the old movies. I love them. They have a quality about them that filmmakers can’t churn out today.” He turned to look back at her as he popped The Raven into the VCR.

  Frankie hadn’t picked out the movie, although he was trying to make it sound like she had. She definitely didn’t want to watch an old horror flick with him.

  She could tell by looking outside that it was early in the morning, maybe six or seven. Condensation sat on the windows. She’d actually spent an entire night in this pit of hell.

  He came over and sat back down on the sofa, right next to her. Fortunately, he didn’t sit too close. She shrunk back a bit. He smelled strongly of expensive cologne, like the kind her father wore.

  “By the way, since we haven’t exactly had a formal introduction, you can call me Poe. I know I told you my name last night, but I wasn’t sure if you remembered it. I know your family and friends call you Frankie, but I prefer Francesca. It’s such an elegant name, so classic and beautiful, like the young Francesca da Rimini in Dante’s Inferno. It’s much nicer than Frankie, which sounds to me like a little boy’s name. And you are definitely not a little boy.” He looked her up and down.

  She shuddered. Stay calm and collected. What was with his weird obsession with Edgar Allan Poe? If she ever got out of here, she’d remember that detail about him. Freak.

  Frankie had studied Poe in her English class the previous semester. As haunting as his work had been, she was sure he’d never kidnapped anyone, and she knew he’d never killed anybody, at least not in the real world.

  “Nicholson is great, isn’t he? But that ridiculous haircut, my God—it’s ghastly. Don’t you think? He looks like a homosexual or something.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Brianne wouldn’t watch this with me. She was too fragile, and, well, this kind of stuff would’ve been too much for her. You’re a lot stronger than she ever was.”


  Afraid to ask exactly what he meant, Frankie wondered who Brianne was, and where she was. Brianne was probably the woman in the photographs. He was obsessed with the pictures and referred constantly to this Brianne person. And then there were the creepy masks hanging all over the place. She tried not to think about the one that looked so much like Leeza.

  “Would you like a coke? Some popcorn?” Frankie shook her head. “Now, come on, Francesca. I want your stay here to be as pleasant as possible, considering all you’ve been through in your life. You deserve a treat. It’s a movie. We’ve got to have a snack. I know it’s the breakfast hour, but I want to spend as much fun time with you as I can. I’ve got to go to work, so I thought we could be together early this morning. I’ll make some anyway. You might change your mind.”

  He went into the kitchen to fix the popcorn, and Frankie decided to appease him by eating some, even though she felt like barfing it up directly on him. That would be perfect. Then he’d have to undo her handcuffs.

  “I did change my mind,” she said in a barely audible whisper. She hoped it wasn’t poisoned.

  “Good girl. I thought you might.” He set down two bowls of popcorn on the coffee table along with sodas.

  “Could you undo my handcuffs?”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “I see your point.” He went back into the kitchen, but she didn’t turn around—too obvious. She heard him close a drawer. He came back over and undid the handcuffs, but left her feet shackled.

  “Thank you.” She mustered a thin smile.