by Deanna Chase
“You know,” she said, less shrilly. “I’ve already been through this twice now.”
“I know,” Mac said, sounding full of sympathy while taking in the clothing, judging her age, and also her maturity level–which wasn’t as high as the age. “But it’d really help me out if you could answer a few questions.”
Jodie never stopped gazing into his eyes, and she seemed to have forgotten she was holding his card. He decided to just go ahead and start.
“What do you know about where Esme likes to run?” Mac asked. “Is there any place in particular?”
“I don’t know,” Jodie replied, a little testy again. “We’re roommates, you know. Not like friends or anything. All I know is she gets up really early and goes running. But I guess the stadium’s the closest place to run.”
“Mmm hmm,” Isabelle murmured quietly.
Mac ignored her, but Jodie glanced at her as though she hadn’t realized anyone was there. Shapely or not, Mac thought, Isabelle’s distraction wasn’t helping.
Where was that campus map he’d asked for?
“Does Esme often not come home at night?” Mac asked.
“Never,” said Jodie. “Not that I know of.” She paused and actually smiled. “But there’s always a first time. You know?”
Mac smiled pleasantly at her and nodded.
“Now, about this morning,” he said.
“I already told the policemen that I didn’t see her leave,” Jodie said, nearly pouting. “I don’t know what time it was.”
“Okay,” Mac said. “Just tell me what the usual morning is like. For example, how do you know she leaves for a run?”
“Because I hear that stupid velcro on her shorts, where she keeps her key,” Jodie answered immediately. “Every single morning. And her bed squeaks.” Jodie pointed to it.
Though Mac appeared to look back at the bed, he glanced at Isabelle standing near Sergeant Dixon. He was taking notes. She’d pursed her lips and was tapping her foot.
“So yesterday morning?” Mac said, turning back to Jodie.
He kept the questions open ended and let her do the talking, now that he’d made the point of the conversation clear and established rapport.
Jodie nodded her head.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Just like usual. Her phone goes off. The bed squeaks. The closet opens. The light comes on.” Her voice had taken on a sing-song quality. “The velcro rips.”
“Her phone goes off?” Mac asked.
“Yeah, she sets her alarm. Every morning at six.”
“Six?” asked Sergeant Dixon. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Jodie said, as though it were obvious. “Every morning, the same.” Apparently Jodie was oblivious to the fact that she’d never mentioned a time before. “I used to check my phone, but now I just roll over.”
“Look,” Isabelle said behind him. “We need to get to the stadium, to the exercise track with a gravel path, and to the grassy area near the brick buildings. We’re wasting time here.”
Mac ignored her.
Just then, a young uniformed police officer came up to the tape behind Jodie.
“Special Agent MacMillan?”
“Yes?” Mac said.
“I’ve got the campus map you requested. And we’re posting flyers of the missing girl around the campus and in local neighborhoods.”
“Good,” Mac said curtly, heading to the door and ducking under the tape. “I want everyone in this dorm questioned about their whereabouts yesterday morning, between six and seven a.m.–students, staff, everybody,” he said, taking off the gloves and booties. “Tell your lieutenant that I want to pull in as many uniformed bodies as needed and get it done quick.”
“Yessir,” the man said as he handed Mac the map, spun on his heel, and trotted off.
“Sergeant?” Mac said.
“Yessir.”
“I take it you’re familiar with the campus?”
The sergeant ducked under the tape and held it for Isabelle, who followed him out. As she passed under the sergeant’s hand, Mac was aware that the sergeant was watching her.
“Sergeant?” Mac said.
“Uh, yessir,” he said quickly. “The stadium is walking distance and,” he paused, “Isabelle is right. The other places that the students like to run are the jogging track that circumnavigates the campus and the intramural field, next to the stadium, adjacent to the brick gyms.”
Isabelle made a small harrumphing sound that clearly said I told you so. Again, Mac ignored her.
“Jodie,” he said turning to her. “Thanks for your help. You’ll be able to get into your room as soon as forensics is done.” He looked down the hallway to a trio of agents dressed from head to foot in clean-room suits and carrying bright, orange tool cases. He waved them over. “Hopefully it won’t be too long.”
Jodie frowned at the approaching forensics team.
“Let’s go then,” Mac said to the sergeant. “When someone disappears during their morning run, it only stands to reason that the most likely places to search are going to be the standard running venues that virtually any campus will have. It’s not rocket science,” he said pointedly, returning Isabelle’s glare. And it’s not ESP either, he thought. “But it’s the most logical place to start.”
The sergeant’s phone rang and he immediately answered.
“Dixon,” he said.
As forensics arrived, Mac pointed at Isabelle. “Get a cheek swab from her.”
A little look of consternation flitted across Isabelle’s delicate features, and he would have chided her about not following protocol, but something in the sergeant’s stance had changed. Something had happened.
“Be there in five,” the sergeant said and snapped the phone closed. “A tip,” he said. “A real one.”
CHAPTER THREE
For such a large campus, the police station seemed tiny. Isabelle glanced around the sterile lobby as the three of them were ushered through into an even more barren cubby-hole of a room. A young man, maybe twenty, sat there waiting alone. He was thin with stringy brown hair and fuzzy stubble that looked as though he’d tried to grow it for weeks. On the single small table rested his overstuffed backpack and, under it, was a battered skateboard. He sat up straighter as they entered the room.
Special Agent MacMillan wasted no time.
“Brendan,” he said. “I’m Special Agent MacMillan, this is Sergeant Dixon, and this is Isabelle de Grey.” She was starting to get used to hearing their names all together. “Thanks very much for coming down here to help us out.” Brendan bobbed his head once, looking at the three of them. He smiled nervously at her, but Mac quickly cut off his view by half-sitting on the table. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
With the only chair in the room occupied, Isabelle moved to the closest corner as the sergeant closed the door and went to his own corner.
As though it was the moment he’d been waiting for, Brendan grinned broadly.
“I saw her yesterday morning, about 6:30, outside Parking Structure Eight,” he said quickly.
“Structure Eight?” Mac said, turning his head to the sergeant, though never taking his eyes off Brendan.
“Right next to the intramural field,” the sergeant replied.
Mac nodded.
“She was with a man,” Brendan said.
As though electricity had run through the room, the suddenly still air seemed to crackle.
“Go on,” Mac said.
“He was taller than her and wore dark slacks and a matching jacket, like a suit.”
They all waited. She and the sergeant exchanged looks.
“And what did he look like?” Mac asked.
“I told you,” Brendan said. “He wore–”
“What did his face look like?” Mac asked.
“I didn’t see it,” Brendan said, no longer grinning. “They were walking away from me, into the parking structure.”
“Color of his hair?” Mac said.
“Brown,” Bren
dan said. Then he glanced nervously at Isabelle. “No. Wait. Maybe black.”
Isabelle grimaced ever so slightly. She felt Brendan’s pain. Memory was a tricky thing.
“Don’t make it up, son,” Mac said quietly, surprising her with his softer tone. “We need facts. If you don’t know, it’s okay to say that.”
Brendan’s face went beet red.
“I don’t know,” he whispered, staring at the table. “It all happened so fast. I was on my board, downhill, really moving.”
“So you didn’t see her face either?”
“No, I did!” he yelled. “I did. She looked at me.” He nudged the skateboard under the table with his foot. “It’s really loud, and she turned to see me. I saw her face. It was her. The missing girl.” Brendan frantically dug a cell phone out of the side pocket of his shorts and in moments was showing them a headshot of Esme. “That’s her. The one in the email that everybody got. Right?”
“Right,” said Mac. “A man taller than her?”
Mac got up so quickly Brendan nearly dropped his phone.
“Yes,” he nodded.
Mac came and stood next to Isabelle.
“Take off your heels,” he said.
“Excuse me?” she said, just as it dawned on her what he was getting at. He’d been about to say something when she held up a gloved hand.
She raised one foot and removed the shoe as she placed her hand on Mac’s arm for balance. It was like a rock. She quickly took off the other shoe. In moments, she was three inches shorter. The tile floor was cool and hard against her bare feet and if Mac had seemed to loom before, he towered now, a good eight inches taller than her. He stood close enough for her to see the beginning of stubble on his chin, and now she noticed the swell of his chest under the crisp white shirt. As he gazed steadily down at her and she realized that he was studying her, Isabelle felt her heart race.
“You’re five foot six,” he said and turned to Brendan. “Esme’s the same. Was the man my height?”
Isabelle exhaled, just now realizing she’d been holding her breath, while Brendan stared at them like a deer caught in the headlights.
“I…I…” he stammered. “I don’t know. It was so quick. They were on the other side of the street.”
Mac pointed to him with a little ‘get up’ motion.
“Let’s go,” Mac said.
“What?” Brendan said, bewildered but obeying the gesture immediately.
“We’re going to the parking structure.”
“Cordon it off, Sergeant,” Mac yelled to him from several yards away. “I don’t want anything to enter or leave.”
“Yessir!” he called back, phone to ear as he waved away a driver that looked as though she had wanted to park.
“Okay, Brendan,” Mac said. He led him by the shoulder across the street. “Show me where you were.”
Isabelle stayed out of the sun, on the first level of the multi-story parking structure, near the sidewalk. As she shielded her eyes against the glare, she watched Mac position Brendan.
“Now,” he said, turning back to her from the other sidewalk. “Where were they?”
Brendan pointed several feet to her left. Isabelle immediately moved in that direction.
“Right there!” Brendan called.
She stopped, just before the corner of the structure and turned to look back across the street. Behind Brendan and Mac were several brick buildings, forming a quad with grass and cement sidewalks running between. From the police station, near the main entrance to the campus, they’d driven up a hill and then down and around it. As they’d rounded the bend, Isabelle realized that the stadium was actually built into the hill and that it was passing by on their right as they circled it. That stadium was visible just off to the right now.
Mac quickly trotted across the road. For a big man, he moved lightly. And as his jacket lifted, Isabelle wasn’t surprised to see that Agent MacMillan was trim at the waist.
“The shoes,” he said.
“Oh, right,” she said, starting to take them off.
She’d been so absorbed watching him, she’d forgotten. She held on to his strong arm again and, when she’d finished removing the shoes, she’d half-thought he might look down at her again. But that didn’t happen and she was surprised by a small twinge of disappointment.
“How’s that?” Mac called out to Brendan.
“You’re too tall!” he shouted excitedly.
Mac took a few long steps toward him and stopped. A couple of cars passed in between them on the two lane road.
“How about now?”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “That looks right.”
Mac motioned him back across the street and turned back toward the parking structure.
“Maybe six feet,” he said to himself. “And he was standing right here,” he said, looking at the ground.
As Brendan joined them, Isabelle began to inspect the asphalt in their vicinity.
“He was wearing a dark suit,” Mac said to Brendan. “And his build?”
Just in front of the closest car, nearly under its bumper, Isabelle saw a light blue, silicon earbud covering. About a foot from that, there was a dirty penny, the face chewed up as though it’d been run over.
“Not like you,” said Brendan. “Maybe average?”
Though her hand went to the small pearl button at the base of her glove, Isabelle hesitated. Random readings of discarded objects would be draining, even painful. She stared hard at the coin. Especially something like that. A pair of earbuds that had likely had one owner was one thing. But a coin that had been in circulation for years, maybe decades, would carry the impressions of so many people, in so many circumstances…
“And what was Esme wearing?” Mac asked.
“Well, running stuff,” Brendan said. “Definitely she was wearing leotards or whatever they’re called. And a tank top.”
“What color?” Mac said.
“Um,” Brendan said. “Maybe white?”
“Remember what I said?” Mac cautioned. Isabelle finally looked back at the two of them. “Facts.”
Brendan’s eyes darted all around the structure, looking at the floor, the parked cars, the sergeant with his yellow tape.
This was ridiculous.
“May I touch you?” she said.
“I’m not finished,” Mac said, a warning tone in his voice that she was getting used to.
“I didn’t ask you,” she said, not looking at him. “I asked Brendan.” She smiled at him and saw him grin crazily in return. “I’m a psychic, and I’d like to read you.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Mac said but, as she stepped toward Brendan, she undid the button of her glove.
“Then keep questioning him,” she said to Mac, never breaking her stare into Brendan’s eyes. His pupils dilated. “It has no effect on what I’m doing.”
“I was wondering why you wore the gloves,” Brendan said, as though he were mesmerized.
“Do I have your permission?” she said lowly, standing directly in front of him now. “I’m going to see everything you saw.”
“Brendan,” Mac snapped. “Was she wearing white or not?”
Isabelle slowly removed the glove, one finger at a time as Brendan watched.
“I’m going to hold your hand,” she said.
“Okay,” he said excitedly, though he hadn’t moved a muscle.
Slowly, she reached down and took his hand in hers.
The surroundings instantly vanished. Brendan’s most recent thoughts were the strongest and those had to do with sex. With her. Then they were back in the station. He’d needed to use the bathroom but had been afraid to ask. Then, he was looking at the email. There’d been a chemistry quiz in his first class. She felt the tightness in her chest as the anxiety of failing again gripped him just as the TA handed him the paper face down. And then. And then…She gripped his hand hard and sucked in a ragged breath. There she was. It was Esme.
“Gray running shorts,” sh
e said as quickly as possible. “White tank top. Silver chain necklace. Hair in a pony tail. Neon blue running shoes. The man is average. Average shoulders. Taller than her. She’s turning to look at me. He has dark hair. The suit is almost shiny, and it’s jet black but his hair isn’t. He’s a brunette. Not yet gray. He won’t turn to look. I’m nearly past now. There are five cars. Dark blue SUV. Black Mini. On the other side, a gray Japanese compact. A beige Jeep with a palm tree on the door. A silver Prius.”
Then Brendan and his skateboard were past the structure.
As quickly as she could, she dropped Brendan’s hand. Her shoes clattered to the floor, and as her purse slid off her shoulder, the parking structure started to spin. Suddenly, she was leaning backward into Mac’s chest and she felt his arm circle her waist from behind. With both hands, she grabbed the steely and steadying muscles over her midriff as he supported her. As she blinked, the world finally came back into focus, including Brendan’s elated face.
“I remember the Jeep!” he said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mac had to admit, it was a good act.
As they headed back to the command post at the house, he’d gone over it in his mind. Three of the vehicles that Isabelle had mentioned had been in the structure, though not in the same spots. No trick there. A quick rundown of vehicles registered for permits in the structure might help to eliminate one or the other of the remaining two cars, though maybe not both–leaving one as a visitor. Even so, Isabelle hadn’t seen any license plates. That would really have helped. And if all they had to go on was a black Mini or a gray Japanese compact, that wasn’t going to be enough.
The description of Esme’s clothes had been confirmed by her mother but, again, a study of her closet in the dorms might have led to an educated guess on what colors Esme liked to wear. Besides, it was the kidnapper for whom they needed a description, not Esme. And Isabelle’s description of him had added little more than Brendan’s.
Mac crossed his arms over his chest and glared out the front window. Six lanes of traffic, virtually bumper to bumper, all going nowhere. Rush hour in L.A. was the worst kind of oxymoron. They’d hardly gone a mile in the last five minutes. He could have got out and run it in less time.
