by S. J. Harper
Zack doesn’t have much to say. He’s driving today and I’m glad. Gives him a chance to pretend he’s focusing on the road and me a chance to focus on Kallistos and our conversation from this morning.
My thoughts spin like a kaleidoscope. I’d been certain moving in with Kallistos was wrong. Now bits and pieces of our past conversations replay in my mind and I’m not so sure. I look out the window at the passing landscape. I have to admit, our relationship is working better than any I’ve had in a long time. Sex is as much a part of his nature as it is mine. We’re good together, more than good. He’s strong enough that I can let go, completely. The things he does, the way he can make my body feel. Yes, he is domineering, egotistical, self-assured. But he can also be thoughtful, gentle, caring, especially with those under his protection.
I remember how he looked when he saw the desiccated bodies of the vampires Barbara Pierce had tortured in her death lab. The sorrow in his eyes was real.
The feeling in those same eyes when he looks at me is real.
Not love. But as close to it as either of us is likely to get.
I am devoted to you. I will forever remain so.
Kallistos isn’t a man who speaks lightly of commitments.
“Hey, Emma.”
Zack’s voice brings me back with a start. I look around. We’ve come to a stop in front of an apartment building. I recognize the name, Maplewood Apartments, as our destination. When I look at Zack, he’s raised both eyebrows and is staring at me.
“Where have you been?”
“Thinking.”
“Something about the case?”
I shake my head.
“Something personal?”
“Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?” Zack asks.
“No.”
He frowns. “I am capable of being Sensitive Listening Guy, you know. I mean, I’m more comfortable being Decisive Action Guy. But for you, Monroe . . .”
I turn away and push my door open. “I’ll let you know.”
Zack follows me up the hedge-bordered path from the road into the apartment complex. Like most of the lower-income apartment buildings in the county, this one is two stories, stucco and wood, with individual air-conditioning units and outside storage closets. It’s been well maintained, no trash or broken glass littering the bushes or walkways. The lawn area is healthy and neatly trimmed. It’s quite a contrast to Julie Simmons’ home even though the two families are in the same income bracket. Maybe the Simmonses just wanted to live close to Julie’s school and they took what they could afford. Rents closer to the beach are always higher.
We stop in front of a cluster of mailboxes marked with numbers only, no tenant names. Zack pulls a copy of the police report from his breast pocket and quickly scans it. “Apartment 1G,” he announces.
He and I find the unit in the back corner of the ground floor. We both have our badges out of our pockets when he rings the doorbell.
At first we get no answer. Then Zack rings again and knocks on the doorjamb.
Just when we think we’ve struck out, the door swings open.
“Yes?”
The woman is short with wide shoulders and hips, long dark hair piled on top of her head in a mass of unruly curls. She’s wearing a bright red shift that ends right above her knees and matching flip-flops with rhinestones along the straps. The sparkly theme is repeated on the bridge and earpieces of oversized, black-framed glasses that make her look bug-eyed. She’s holding a can of Pledge in one hand and a dust rag in the other.
“Agent Armstrong?” she asks, looking up at Zack. Then her gaze shifts to me.
I step forward. “Mrs. Clemons, I’m Agent Monroe.”
“As I explained on the phone, we’re here because we’ve been assigned to your daughter’s case. We want to help find Hannah,” Zack interjects.
She’s already motioning for us to come inside. “I’ve been a bundle of nerves. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat.” She places the furniture polish and the dust rag on a small table next to the door and removes her glasses. If the smell of the tiny apartment is any indication, Mrs. Clemons has been cleaning nonstop since Hannah turned up missing.
“Shall we sit?” I ask.
She looks toward the sofa in the middle of the room. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
Zack and I follow her, taking seats at opposite ends of the small couch while she sits facing us across a coffee table that I could use for a mirror.
Zack sniffs the air. “Apple pie?”
Mrs. Clemons looks surprised. “I just put it into the oven. You can smell it already?”
Zack looks abashed for a moment. He’s forgotten his Were sense of smell detects more than the lemon of Pledge and chlorine of bleach.
I jump to his rescue. “I could smell those fresh-cut apples and cinnamon as soon as you opened the door. Besides, apple pie is his hands-down favorite.”
She reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a crumpled tissue. “I just put it in the oven a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Clemons repeats. “It’s Hannah’s favorite, too. Please, Agent Armstrong, you have to find my baby.”
While Zack promises we’ll do our best and buoys hope by talking about the Bureau’s clearance rate, I take a moment to look around the place Hannah calls home. Pictures of her crowd the polished surfaces of scattered end tables, allowing us to see the progression from infant to young lady at a glance. On the mantelpiece over a faux fireplace is a larger version of the school picture we have in our folder. Alongside that one is a portrait of Hannah in a cheerleading outfit in front of her school.
She looks happy, well adjusted.
Zack takes out his notebook and pen. “When did you last see Hannah?”
“Friday morning when she left for school. It was like any other morning. I woke her up. We had breakfast together. Waffles. I made her lunch. She packed up her backpack. Then I drove her to school and waved good-bye.” The tears start to flow. “I wish she’d never gotten out of that car.”
I spy a box of tissues on the counter space that doubles as a breakfast bar and serves to separate the kitchen from the living area. I tilt my head in its direction and Zack picks up my cue.
“What time did you drop her off?” I ask.
“I’m an RN. I work the seven-to-three shift at Sharp Rees-Stealy in Point Loma. So I drop Hannah off at six forty-five every morning and pick her up at three fifteen. Except for days off, of course.” She plucks a fresh tissue from the box Zack offers and dabs at her eyes.
“What time does school get out?”
“Two thirty. Hannah usually starts on homework while she waits. She’s a good student. She skipped the seventh grade altogether. Don’t know where she gets it. She has a 3.85 GPA.”
“Was she having problems with anyone at school?” Zack chimes in.
“No.”
He sets the tissues on the coffee table and reclaims his seat. “Any problems here at home?”
“Things have been going really well, better than they have in years.”
“How so?”
“Hannah’s father, Jason, moved out about six months ago. He . . .” She swallows hard, then looks Zack right in the eye. “He would drink too much. And he would beat me. One of the doctors at the hospital caught on. He talked me into going to a support group. After a few weeks, I started to bring Hannah with me. We’d both lived in fear for so long, I thought it would help, and it did. Finally I was able to get a restraining order. He’s broken it. Twice.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Zack asks.
“He was staying in the apartment above his sister’s garage in Chula Vista. They had a falling out about a week ago and he moved out. I called her Friday night. I figured he should know—about Hannah. His sister has been trying to track him down.”
“We’d like to get your sister-in-law’s name and address from you. Has Mr. Clemons made any threats toward Hannah?”
“No. Absolutely not. He’s a shit and a deadbeat, but he never h
urt Hannah.”
“Did Hannah have a boyfriend?”
“She has friends who are boys. No one she’s especially interested in. I’m afraid living in this house has made her a little gun-shy about relationships.”
Zack slips three pictures out of a folder. He lays them faceup on the table in front of Mrs. Clemons. “Did Hannah know these girls?”
Mrs. Clemons’ eyes quickly skim Rain’s picture, and Julie’s, but pause at Sylvia’s. She picks it up. “Sylvia is in Hannah’s cheer squad.”
“She’s been missing since Saturday.”
“What? No!”
“You didn’t hear about Sylvia?”
She swallows back a sob, pauses, composes herself. “I haven’t listened to the television for three days. Or answered the telephone without screening calls. I’ve been afraid to. Afraid there would be news of Hannah . . . or that there wouldn’t be.”
Zack nods that he understands and points to Julie and Rain. “What about these two girls? Do you recognize them?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know them. If they’re students at the Academy, Hannah probably does. The school isn’t that big. Are they missing, too?”
I tap Julie’s photo. “This one is.”
“Dear God.”
Zack slides a bank statement across the table. “We’ve found an account in your daughter’s name at a local bank in Ocean Beach. Were you aware she had opened it?”
“No. But it doesn’t surprise me. She’s been saving for college for as long as she’s known what it was. First it was change in a little piggy bank. Then she cashed that in and started stashing babysitting money in a shoe box in her closet.”
I point to the spreadsheet, run my fingers down a column of numbers. “I think she’s been depositing more than babysitting and birthday money. Hannah opened this account last June with an initial deposit of close to fourteen hundred dollars. Since then she’s made substantial weekly deposits.”
“How substantial?”
“Two hundred per week,” Zack says.
Mrs. Clemons rises abruptly, grabs her glasses, and returns to snatch up the spreadsheet. After a moment, she says, “This has to be a mistake. Three thousand dollars? Hannah babysits. But only during the summer. She’s too busy with her schoolwork and cheerleading during the school year to work. And no way could she have taken a job without me knowing.” She slaps the sheet back down on the table. “It’s another Hannah Clemons. It has to be.”
I repeat the Social Security number attached to the account. “Is that your daughter’s Social Security number?”
“Yes.”
Zack hands her a copy of the account application. “Her handwriting?”
Mrs. Clemons nods. Like Julie’s parents, she seems baffled.
While Zack collects the photos and bank documents, I ask the next question.
“The deposits occurred throughout the summer. What was Hannah doing then?”
It takes Mrs. Clemons a few moments to regain her composure. She slips her glasses down the bridge of her nose and peers at Zack over the lenses. “Let’s see, Hannah spent a week at cheer camp right after school got out. Then she went on a college trip. She was so excited when she came home. She wants to go to Berkeley.” Mrs. Clemons pulls another tissue out of the box and wipes her eyes again before continuing. “The rest of the time she did some babysitting for a neighbor’s kids downstairs. Nothing that would account for this.”
Zack follows up with, “What about socially? What did she do with her spare time?”
“She didn’t have that much spare time during the week. But she did things with her fellow cheerleaders on the weekends. Practices, movies, parties. Friday or Saturday nights mostly.”
“What about her father? You said he’s been out of the house for six months. Has she spent time with him? Could he have given her the money?”
She shakes her head. “First of all, he doesn’t have any money. And Hannah hasn’t wanted to see him, which is fine with me.”
She looks suddenly tired, her face drained of color. The strain she’s been under for the past couple days, not to mention the appearance of two FBI agents on her doorstep, is taking its toll. My sympathy goes out to her.
“Just one more thing,” I say. “Could we take a look at Hannah’s room?”
Her eyes widen in panic. “I dusted her room. Should I not have done that? The police said they were through.”
“No worries,” I assure her. “We’re not crime scene investigators.”
“I’m sure the police were thorough,” adds Zack. “Sometimes a fresh eye sees things differently.”
She sighs. “I was hoping you had new information, but you don’t, do you?”
“We have three missing girls now, Mrs. Clemons. Agent Armstrong and I are giving this case our undivided attention. It’s our top priority, our only priority right now. We hope to have news soon.”
She reaches for my hand and squeezes. “You’ll find my Hannah.”
Her desperation reminds me of another mother’s. I’d almost forgotten those early days, when we were all still searching and hopeful—before the banishment, the curse. When life was simple, idyllic, and love was a promise arriving with the dawn of each new day.
Before Demeter’s bitter thirst for vengeance replaced every bit of kindness and warmth she possessed.
The memory prompts me to take the hand of the woman looking at me so expectantly. “We’re very good at our jobs, Mrs. Clemons. I believe we’ll find her.”
Zack snaps his notebook closed. “We’ll do our best.” His tone is clipped, sharp, directed at me. Then, “Will you show us to Hannah’s room?” he asks Mrs. Clemons.
She shows us down the hall to a closed door and stands aside so we can enter. She doesn’t wait for us to ask to be left alone. “I’ll be in the living room when you’re done.”
Hannah’s room is small but, like the rest of the house, clean and orderly. A twin bed sits along one wall with a dresser opposite, bookcases line a third. Under the window are a desk and chair. The walls have posters tacked up of some of the more popular movies and television shows: The Vampire Diaries, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Twilight. One is a pinup of an actor who plays a werewolf in a brand-new television series, muscles bulging, smooth, bare chest gleaming. From the corner of my eye, I see Zack surreptitiously give him the once-over—and then shake his head, snapping his gloves on for emphasis. “Werewolf with a waxed chest,” he mutters under his breath. “Only in Hollywood.”
He turns toward me. “You shouldn’t have told Mrs. Clemons we’d find her daughter.”
I avoid his eyes, knowing he’s right. It was an unprofessional thing to do. Still, I can’t help but say, “I do believe we’ll find her.”
He shakes his head. “What if we don’t?”
I don’t answer and Zack doesn’t press me. He’s said his piece and moved on to the task at hand.
His gaze sweeps the room. “I’ll take the dresser.”
That leaves me the closet. Hannah’s wardrobe is arranged by item on the rod: one side holds skirts, blouses, dresses, and jeans. The other, her cheerleading outfits and school uniforms. All the clothes are neatly pressed and smell like fabric softener. I search all of her pockets, feel inside each shoe. Nothing. Nothing of interest in any boxes, nothing out of the ordinary on the shelves.
Zack looks up from the floor where he’s stooped to look under the bed and dresser. “You got anything?”
“Yeah, a whole lot of nothing.” I glance around the room. “I don’t think we’re going to get lucky twice.”
I pass my hand between the mattress and box spring on the bed. Shake the pillows. I also check the few framed photos on the nightstand.
Zip.
“If she kept a checkbook at home, I’m beginning to think it’s not in her room. And the police reports say the girls’ lockers at school had been searched.”
Zack nods and climbs to his feet. His eyes go to the desk. It’s the only thing left and it’
s just a flat surface with no drawers. A pile of books, pens, pencils, a backpack, and a notebook have been placed on top. “Johnson said the girls’ lockers at school had been emptied. After the local PD went through everything, they returned the items to the parents. I doubt we’ll find anything of value.” He tosses me the backpack. “You search the backpack and I’ll take the rest.”
I plop myself on Hannah’s bed and empty the contents of the backpack. Nothing but what you’d expect a teenage girl to carry—lip gloss, mascara, a cell phone, earbuds, comb, brush, a pack of gum, and a schedule for cheerleading practice. I hold up the cell. “This has been dumped, right? I think I saw phone records in the police reports.”
“Yep. All the girls’ cells have been dumped.”
I put everything back. Look around the room again. “Zack? I don’t see a computer.”
He looks around, too. “You’re right. What kid doesn’t have a computer these days?”
“Maybe the police still have it.”
I tug at the bedspread to straighten it, slip off my gloves, and shove them into the pocket of my jacket. “Let’s ask Mrs. Clemons.”
When we go back to the living room, Mrs. Clemons is standing by the front window, looking out at the courtyard. She turns when she hears us approach. When she sees that we’re empty-handed, despair drags at the corners of her eyes and mouth, a sad look of hopelessness that touches my heart.
Softly, Zack asks her whether Hannah had a computer.
“Yes,” she replies. Her back stiffens. Her expression becomes stern, as if answering the question strengthens her resolve not to give in to the misery. “I told the police that it was missing. She kept it in her backpack.”
Zack asks, “Could Hannah have let someone borrow it?”
“Or lost it?” I add.
She shakes her head. “No. Hannah was extremely protective of her laptop. I’m sorry I didn’t think to mention it. I figured you were coordinating monitoring with the police.”
