by Gregg Olsen
“Such a sad story unfolding here in Tacoma. If anyone has any information—saw, heard anything, please contact the Tacoma Police Department.”
The last image on the screen was a photo of Lisa and a phone number.
Down in Olympia a few miles south of Tacoma, a man named Dennis Caldwell was watching the Seattle TV news when the image of Lisa Lancaster made him do a double take and reach for the phone. He was almost shaking when the detective handling the case of his daughter’s disappearance answered.
“Hey, Dennis,” Detective Jonathan Stevens said. “I know you’re calling for an update, but, sorry, nothing new.”
“No update. I mean, I think I might have an update for you,” Dennis said, his voice quavering.
“How’s that? Remember something, did you?”
“No. I just saw something I think you should check out. I saw on KING-5 just now. There’s a missing girl’s case in Tacoma. The girl was abducted from one of those colleges up there. Taken, just like my Kelsey.”
“I’m sure it might seem that way to you, Dennis,” Detective Stevens said. He was not trying to shut down the anguished father. Although it sounded like he’d been drinking, he wasn’t going to hold that against him. His daughter had been abducted. No one ever gets over that. Never. “We’re still on top of the case.”
“Like hell you are. You don’t know who took her now any more than you did the day she went missing. You don’t know a thing.”
“We’re on it,” he said.
“The girl up in Tacoma looks just like my Kelsey. The same hair. Same features. A beautiful girl. Maybe the guy who took her is the same one who took my little girl. Will you promise to check it out?”
Jonathan Stevens never failed to check out any lead, no matter how tangential.
“You hang in there, Dennis,” he said.
“You catch who abducted her.”
After the call, Jonathan did a quick computer check and found information about Lisa Lancaster’s disappearance. Lisa did look a lot like Kelsey, that was true. But she was much older. Kelsey Caldwell was seventeen and had been abducted after drama practice—she had been cast as Fiona in Brigadoon. Lisa Lancaster was twenty-four, a college student. He did have to hand it to Dennis Caldwell, drunk or not. He was right. The two girls looked like sisters.
Jonathan Stevens made a call up to Tacoma. It was more due diligence than anything. The chances of the two cases being connected in any way were slim to none. He just didn’t want to be the cop who didn’t act on a desperate father’s request for justice. He couldn’t live with that at all.
CHAPTER 5
Like the others before him, and undoubtedly the many more to follow, he was watching the TV news with a keen interest. His kind liked to be informed. They needed to get the update, the 411. Men like him always needed to know what their work had wrought. It was a thrill to see how someone reacted when his or her little girl was snatched. Most cried. Some like Lisa’s mother, Catherine Lancaster, let tears fall slowly, as they fought for control in front of the camera. Those boohoo-ers, as he called them, were interesting, though kind of predictable.
Of course you are miserable, you idiot. You should have taught your daughter to be careful. Ever heard of stranger danger? Cry me a goddamn river, you idiot mother!
He sucked in everything Lisa Lancaster’s mother had been saying, like he would suck the marrow from Lisa’s bones. Hard. Quick. She was a classic boohoo-er. And a bit of a bore if you asked him. Which no one ever would, because no one would ever know it was he who’d taken her.
The ones who got his adrenaline pumping were those who showed more anger than fear. They were the ones who jabbed at the camera and threatened to come right out of the TV to throttle the perpetrator.
“Bring her back or I’ll make you so damn sorry!”
He smiled. They seemed so angry, so determined. It was almost a joke to him. They’d be the first ones to run from him if they knew he was nearby. All talk. All bravado. He imagined going to a candlelight vigil or a missing persons office to rub shoulders next to the finger-jabber. He’d lean over and whisper.
“She begged for her life, you know.”
And when the person spun around, he’d pretend he’d said something else.
“She’s a survivor, you know.”
The only thing better than the finger-jab threat of some pissed-off dad was the truly inconsolable mother. The ones who could hardly get a word out of their trembling lips.
He liked those kinds of mothers. Their words and palpable fear were like a drug. They sparked. They sent a charge of adrenaline, spasms of excitement, through his body. It was as if their pain, their deepest hurt, brought him the greatest joy that he could imagine. Better than sex.
Almost.
Sometimes he was so drawn to the mother’s pain that he’d drive by their house. It was a risk, a big one. Risks, however, were part of the game. The one he admired over all the other men who were just like him, had taken more risks than anyone. He’d escaped jail twice. He’d killed more girls than any other—though others were pretenders to the crown. He was the best at what he’d sought to do. A legend.
At times, he knew that following in the footsteps of a legend was like walking a tightrope in the dark. Yet he had no choice. He never really had.
Police detective Grace Alexander stood on the front doorstep and let her eyes pierce through the opening in the curtain between the small window and the door frame. The fabric moved and a woman with dark, penciled-on brows and eyes that had obviously cried a thousand tears stood there waiting. The women’s eyes met, and in a flash both knew that what they were about to share was nothing either would have wanted.
Not ever.
“Let me do the talking,” she said to Paul Bateman, who was standing a step behind her.
“You always do the talking,” he said. “But I guess that’s one of the things you’re good at.”
If it was a dig, it was a subtle one. At least for Paul, who’d been anything but subtle. He’d been angry over custody issues concerning his daughter, Elizabeth, a twelve-year-old girl who did what a lot of kids of police officers did—whatever she could think of when it came to torturing her father.
And her mother, too. Paul’s ex, Lynnette Bateman, was the sergeant in the same detectives’ unit—the one who’d insisted her unit “man up” and get the work done with less. For the past few months, Grace and other members of the department had half-enjoyed the drama of two of their own tussling over a kid who it seemed was going to end up on the wrong side of the law.
At that moment, none of that mattered, of course. The woman on the other side of the door twisted the knob and spoke with the kind of anxiousness that was the hallmark of a mother in her position. She couldn’t fathom that the world had conspired to drag her down lower than she’d ever dreamed possible in the beautifully restored turn-of-the-century home in Tacoma’s Proctor district.
“You found her,” she said, stepping backwards as the door widened to let the detectives inside the foyer, a large space of gleaming mahogany trim.
“Ms. Lancaster?” Grace asked.
Catherine Lancaster gave a quick nod. “You found her,” she repeated.
“I’m Detective Alexander,” Grace said. Without allowing her eyes to move from Ms. Lancaster’s, she twisted a little toward her partner. “This is Detective Bateman.”
Paul Bateman nodded but, sticking to his word for a change, said nothing.
“You’ve found Lisa, haven’t you? She’s dead, isn’t she? My baby’s dead!”
“No. No, Ms. Lancaster, we haven’t found her.”
A brief look of relief came over Catherine Lancaster’s face, and she steadied herself. She led the detectives inside and motioned to a pair of chairs across from a sofa draped with an afghan. It was a large room, deceptively so. Most homes of that vintage were warrens, small spaces. This one was spacious.
The detective who had originally had the case had been injured in a car accide
nt the previous evening—the night of the news telecast. Grace and Paul had taken the case—and the urgency that came with it— that morning. They explained the accident and how they’d be taking over.
“I hope you’re better at finding my daughter than he was,” Catherine said. “It has been four days, you know.”
Grace let the cutting remark slide. Detective Roger Goodman was an excellent investigator. His notes indicated that he had been following up the possibility that Lisa had left with a boyfriend.
Catherine offered coffee, but no one wanted any. They sat around the kitchen table, a refrigerator plastered with magnets and postcards was a chronicle of the family’s life—Disney, Grand Canyon, Hawaii. On the counter were shopping bags from Macy’s and Nordstrom and a shoebox. A chalkboard above the wall phone carried a message.
Lisa, let me know about Friday!
“We want to follow up on Marty Keillor, your daughter’s boyfriend. He left town the same day as Lisa.”
Catherine shook her head, an irritated look on her face.
“Look,” she said, “I told Detective Goodman that Marty was a good kid. They weren’t seeing each other anymore. They dated on and off for years, and when they finally broke up it was amicable. He came over here the day before yesterday.”
Grace had read the name in the report. “We’ve been looking for him. Why didn’t you let us know?”
“I did. I called it in to Detective Goodman,” Catherine said. “Left a message on the machine. I guess he was in the hospital already. Probably my hospital, too, but no one told me.”
“Where was Marty?” Paul asked.
“He and some buddies went over to Sun Lakes on the other side of the mountains, where there’s still some summer weather. They had no cell, no Internet. Marty had no idea Lisa was missing. He’s as devastated as I am.”
The sound of a car door slammed and footsteps made their way to the door.
As if on cue, it was Marty.
“He’s here right now. Talk to him.”
Catherine got up and opened the door. A handsome young man with dark hair and biceps that indicated daily curls embraced her. Lisa’s mother and former boyfriend hugged.
“Police,” Catherine said.
“Good,” the young man said, finally loosening his embrace as they walked across the living room to the kitchen.
Grace looked at Paul. The hug was a little strange—not the embrace of the heartbroken, but something else.
Marty Keillor slid into a seat. He was taller than Paul. His legs barely fit under the table. He wore a tight black V-neck T-shirt and dark washed Wranglers. On his snowshoe-sized feet were brand-new Carhartt boots.
The detectives introduced themselves to the former boyfriend.
The young man leaned across the table, his face full of concern.
“Where is she?” Marty asked.
“That’s what we want to know,” Paul said. “We thought maybe you could tell us something. Did you know we were looking for you?”
He shook his head. “How could I? There’s no cell service. I got the other cop’s messages, when we came over the pass. I came right over here. Didn’t I, Catherine?”
Catherine? Whatever happened to Ms. Lancaster? Grace thought.
“Can anyone verify where you were when she went missing?” she asked.
“Yeah, like about fifty people. Huge party at Sun Lakes,” he said.
“Can you provide us with names, numbers, for any of the fifty, specifically?”
Catherine spoke up. “I don’t like where this is going,” she said. “I can see that you’re trying to blame Marty for something here. That’s ludicrous.”
“Maybe. But it is routine, Ms. Lancaster,” Grace said.
Marty glanced over at Catherine, then back at the detectives. “No problem. I get it. Missing girl—boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, gets dibs on being a person of interest.”
“If you have to investigate Marty, do it fast,” Catherine said, patting him on the arm. “He’s got nothing to do with this. He’s my support system and he’s a good one. I want you to find out who took Lisa. Please. Find out who took her and bring her home.”
Grace could feel the mother’s pain. Despite the odd vibes she was getting of something going on between the mother and former boyfriend, there could be no denying that Catherine Lancaster was in tremendous pain.
“We’re going to do our best,” Grace said.
“But to be fair, there isn’t much to go on,” Paul said.
“I’m sorry your detective got injured, but you better hope that his misfortune didn’t put my Lisa in greater danger. You better hope that big-time.”
The detectives handed over their business cards, promised open lines of communication, and took a list of names and cell numbers from Marty.
Detective Goodman had interviewed campus police at PLU—which yielded nothing. He made a note of a meeting with Naomi Carlyle, the girl who had likely been the last person to talk to Lisa before she’d disappeared.
“Let’s go see Naomi,” Grace said.
“Yeah,” Paul answered, as they got into the car. “Was it just me or did you get a weird feeling? Maybe something going on between those two?”
Grace started the car and looked at Paul.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Did you notice the shoebox on the kitchen counter? Carhartt boots size thirteen.”
“No, so?”
“Marty was wearing brand-new Carhartts,” she said, backing into the street.
“Didn’t catch that,” he said. “Methinks they’ve been knocking those boots.”
Grace nodded. “Methinks that, too.”
Roger Goodman’s initial report indicated that Naomi worked at the Melting Pot. Since she wasn’t picking up the cell number they had for her, Grace and Paul drove down the hill toward the restaurant in Tacoma’s best stab at urban renewal—a slew of restaurants along Pacific Avenue not far from the Washington State History Museum and the Dale Chihuly–stuffed Museum of Glass. Grace and Shane had been to The Melting Pot a couple times before. It was an expensive fondue restaurant whose price point kept it in the “special occasion” category. On the drive down, Paul complained about Lynnette, his ex-wife, and Grace pretended to agree with everything he said. To disagree just meant more mind-numbing examples of why Lynnette Bateman was a complete bitch and control freak. Since she truly was, there was no point in getting that litany from her pissed-off former husband.
“You know,” Grace said, “Lynnette is my sergeant.”
“I know,” he said. “I feel sorry for you.”
“I appreciate that, Paul. But what I’m trying to say is I just can’t go there conversation-wise. I get what you’re saying. I trust your opinion. Can we just leave it like that?”
“Okay,” he said, his face a little red. “I just need someone to talk to. You know, she’s really messing up the custody deal.”
“You’re a good father,” Grace said. “It will work out.”
He looked out the window. “Hope so. I need my kid.”
Grace nodded. She pulled into a parking space behind The Melting Pot.
“Naomi drives a light blue VW,” she said, pulling into park.
“Yeah. That’s the one. Guess she’s working.”
Inside the restaurant they found Naomi Carlyle, front and center. She was an attractive young woman with long waves of blond hair and green eyes that flickered in the light of her workstation, the hostess podium.
After the detectives introduced themselves, the trio went to a quiet space in the back of the restaurant.
“I told the detective on the phone that I couldn’t think of anyplace Lisa would have gone. I mean, I can think of places she would like to go—Maui, for example. But I doubt that’s where she went. She would never have left that car of hers. She loved it. Plus, when you get right down to it that little bitch would have never gone anywhere good without me.”
“Little bitch? That’s kind of harsh,” Paul said.
&nbs
p; Naomi laughed. “No. That’s just nickname we had at Stadium High. We were the little bitches—LBs. We ran that school.”
“I see. High school was a while ago,” Grace said. “You and Lisa have been close for a long time.”
“Yeah. Like sisters,” Naomi said. A waitress offered them water, but all three indicated no.
“Then you probably were around when she was dating Marty Keillor,” Paul said.
“Party Marty,” Naomi said. “Yeah, I was. The dude was fun but so wrong for her. He kept cheating on her. She’d break up. Go back to him. Break up again. You needed a tally sheet to figure out what their relationship was. Glad that’s over.”
“Was it a hard breakup?” Grace asked.
“No. Not really. I mean, look they had a yo-yo relationship. Each breakup and makeup was easy. By the end they were only a booty call anyway. What’s all this about Marty? He’s a dope, but he’d never hurt her. You should follow up on that capper she was talking to before she disappeared.”
“Capper?”
Naomi shrugged. “He had a broken leg or something. She was talking to me when she was going to her car and said she’d call me later, but I fell asleep. I never even looked to see if she called until the next day.”
“What did she say about the guy with the broken leg?”
“Just that he was a dork and she was going to help him. She used to be in a club that helped those people.”
“The ‘cappers,’ ” Paul said with obvious disdain for the young woman’s choice of words for handicapped individuals.
“Don’t be a judger,” she said, her eyes now icy. “Just do your job and find her.”
Grace cut the tension with a question. “What did she say about the guy?”
“Not much. She went to help him because he dropped his books. I guess some of our diversity training actually took root. I would have just let him struggle. I don’t believe in helping people who you don’t know.”
Naomi was a jerk, but she’d been the last one to talk to the vanished girl.
“Marty and Lisa’s mother seem very close,” Paul said.
