by Alan Russell
But now this. If it didn’t hurt so much, he would laugh.
He tried calling home again. The line was still busy.
Being a congressman had its perks. As soon as he’d gotten off the phone with Eleanor, he had called SDPD’s chief of police. She had personally assured him that her officers would try and quietly take the intruder away. Duncan was hoping to keep the story from the media. He didn’t need that craziness.
The girl posing as his daughter had a hell of a nerve trying to pass herself off as Stella. He wasn’t sure which posed more of a threat to his wife: a criminal or a crazy. It would certainly be easier to forgive the impostor if she was deluded, as long as she wasn’t violent. But this faker had better not have tried to scam Eleanor out of money. If she had, he would make sure she paid big-time for causing Eleanor to suffer. It was hard to imagine a crueler deception.
He exited the freeway, turning west on Del Mar Heights Road. From atop the hill, he caught sight of the Pacific Ocean. Before their tragedy, he and Eleanor had walked almost every night along the sand.
It’s been seven years, thought Duncan, since I walked on the beach.
He continued west, then turned onto a residential road. The area around his home was generally very quiet, its border the eastern expanse of the Torrey Pines Reserve Extension. But today something had upset the hive. Ahead, he could see the clustered media vans. The cameras had brought out spectators, and both sides of the street were lined with cars.
Déjà vu. Seven years before he had seen the same sights.
Duncan pushed on the accelerator, but didn’t get very far. The police had set up a barricade a block from his house. An irate cop tried to wave him away.
“I live on this street,” said Duncan. “What’s happened?”
The cop didn’t answer his question. “In order for you to pass, I’ll need a picture ID with your address on it.”
Duncan pulled out his wallet. “Is my wife all right?” he asked. “I’m Duncan Pierce.”
He handed over his congressional ID, and the cop did a double take. He was young, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but already had a world-weary face. His attitude changed immediately.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, handing back Duncan’s ID. “People have been coming up with all sorts of stories to try and get by. As far as I know, sir, your wife is fine.”
As he moved the barricade aside, the officer asked, “Is it true about your daughter, sir? Has she come back?”
Duncan offered a noncommittal smile. But what he was thinking was, shit, shit, shit. Eleanor must have let the cat out of the bag. It sounded like she’d gone public with her delusion.
This was going to look bad, thought Duncan. Eleanor had been set up by the impostor. Maybe his political enemies had decided to discredit him with a Trojan horse. Duncan was known as a comer in the party, a man on the way up. But in order to be listened to, he had to be credible. If his wife was making herself a national laughingstock, there would be plenty of guilt by association.
As he neared his home, he could see that he would have to traverse a media gauntlet. The vultures were all lined up in front of the house. For once, Eleanor’s security fencing served a good purpose—keeping them off the property. It still wouldn’t look good on TV, though. Their house would look more like a prison than a residence. All it needed was a watchtower and a revolving spotlight.
Two police cars were parked on the street. Duncan wondered if the officers had already arrested the intruder. He managed to drive up to the gatepost before the media noticed him. As he tapped out the security code, cameras and reporters with microphones rushed him. Duncan smiled and waved. The first rule of politics: never let them see you sweat.
“Congressman! We need a comment!”
“Representative Pierce, is it true your daughter is inside?”
“Congressman, have you talked with Stella yet?”
“Congressman! Have the police confirmed your daughter’s identity?”
At least a dozen voices vied to be heard. Duncan’s smile became a little more forced.
If only the damn gate wasn’t taking so long to open. There were so many arms with microphones aimed his way that he felt as if he were being confronted by a giant, writhing octopus.
“Please excuse me,” he said, inching the car forward.
The arms moved along with him.
“After I get some answers, I’ll return and fill you in on what I’ve learned,” he promised.
The arms reluctantly pulled back, and Duncan was able to pull in to the safety of his driveway. With the cameras no longer trained on him, he dropped his smile. His stomach was knotted up, and his head throbbed. He was angry that the police hadn’t just quietly arrested the intruder, and upset at Eleanor for putting him in this spot. But most of his ire was reserved for the trespasser.
She was probably just another troublemaker looking for her fifteen minutes of fame. In-your-face tactics were becoming ever more common by groups demanding one political action or another. If it wasn’t pies being thrown, it was manure being dumped, or backsides being exposed. The tactic didn’t matter, as long as their agenda was publicized. The intruder would probably have some prepared speech about saving the banana slugs.
The front door opened when he was only halfway up the walkway. He could make out Eleanor. Next to her was the girl, but she was obscured by the shadows. Where were the police, and why hadn’t she been arrested?
But as Duncan came closer, he fought off a sudden weakness in his legs. No wonder Eleanor was confused. The young woman in the doorway did bear a striking resemblance to their daughter. Last year the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children had done an age-progression photo of Stella. This young woman looked amazingly like their extrapolation, with the exception of her hair, which had been pictured as sandy blonde. This girl’s hair was the same pale blonde as Stella’s on the day she disappeared.
“Daddy!”
The girl met him at the door, throwing her arms around him. Without thinking, Duncan responded, returning her hug. Then he remembered himself, and also remembered the probing eyes of the media. At least the only shot they’d get would be his back. Duncan closed the door behind him, then dropped his arms to his sides. That didn’t stop the girl from continuing to hold on to him tightly.
“I’m so happy to see you, Daddy,” she said. Then she whispered for his ears only: “All these years I could hear your voice in my head talking about Curious George and Stuart Little and Mr. Toad. Remember how we laughed about Mr. Toad and his driving?”
Duncan’s jaw was trembling. It would be hard for someone posing as his daughter to know how the two of them had laughed at silly Mr. Toad. He looked at his wife. Eleanor was nodding at him and laughing through her tears. His eyes dropped back to the girl, who was still hugging him. He wanted to reach down and lift her, wanted to wrap her in a bear hug, but he fought the impulse. She couldn’t be Stella. It was impossible. By sheer force of will he ignored her clinging presence, taking notice instead of two uniformed policemen standing in the hallway. They were doing their best to pretend they weren’t watching what was going on.
Duncan questioned them with his eyes, and the short, swarthy man spoke first: “I’m Officer Ruiz, Congressman.”
The man with the football-player build said, “Officer Jensen.”
“I talked with the chief of police earlier this afternoon,” Duncan said.
The officers understood his reference, and with it his unspoken question: Why hadn’t they arrested the intruder?
“We were going to take this young woman in for questioning,” Officer Ruiz explained, “but your wife strongly objected.”
“After seven years, Duncan,” Eleanor said, “I wasn’t going to let our daughter go anywhere.”
“We had fingerprints on file from when your daughter went missing,” said Jensen. “We fingerprinted the young woman, scanned the results, and then sent them into the lab. They compared the prints and just now
called back with the results.”
His wife was crying again. And laughing. Even the officers were smiling through their own misty eyes. But Duncan needed to hear the words.
“And what in God’s name did the department tell you?”
“Sorry,” said Jensen. “The fingerprints are a perfect match. Of course we’ll do a DNA test as well. Your daughter’s former pediatrician will be making a house call today and will be taking DNA swabs, but everything we have so far says this is your daughter, Stella.”
Duncan didn’t know quite how to react. He had been sure this moment would never happen. For seven years he had steeled himself against any hope. But now he had no defenses. All the dams he had erected were swept away.
He threw his arms around Stella. It had been years since Duncan had last cried. His eyes had watered up a few times over certain movies, and there were a few sentimental occasions when he’d wiped away a tear or two, but not since Stella’s disappearance had he lost it.
But now the sobs wouldn’t stop. He held on to his little girl for dear life. The harder he tried to suppress his emotions, the more sobs racked his chest. He cried until he was weak and his abdomen hurt as if he’d been punched by a heavyweight. But the pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
His daughter was back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Shit!” said Dr. Benjamin Froke.
When had those flashing lights appeared behind him? The last thing he needed was another ticket, especially after pleading guilty to reckless driving the month before. He’d been lucky to get off that easy. The Breathalyzer hadn’t shown what blood work would have.
He pulled his Lexus over to the side of the road. Everyone assumed he owned the car; Froke didn’t advertise that it was a lease. Every month he had to come up with three grand to pay his med-school nut. It was like owing a loan shark. That didn’t leave much, despite the MD after his name.
Froke glanced in his rearview mirror. He’d been pulled over by an unmarked car. The driver—a detective, Froke supposed—was wearing a gray suit. He had on polarized Oakley Half Jackets, the kind that hid the eyes. Next to him was a man who could have been his twin. He was wearing the same dark suit and shades. In fact, both men reminded Froke of the villains in those Matrix movies.
As they approached his car, Froke could just make out a slight bulge in the driver’s tailored suit, which indicated he was carrying a gun. But instead of walking up to Froke’s window, the driver made a side approach, came up to the passenger window, and rapped on the glass. Froke rolled down that window. The man gestured with a downward stroke of his index finger for Froke to unlock the door; a moment later he did. Without asking, the man took a seat next to him.
“I wasn’t speeding,” said Froke, even though he was well aware that he had been.
“I wish you hadn’t started our relationship with a lie,” said the man.
Froke frowned.
“You have been a bad boy, Dr. Froke.” The man passed over a folder. “I don’t think the state medical board would take kindly to all those fake prescriptions you’ve been writing for yourself.”
Froke began thumbing through the photocopies in the file but had to stop when his hands started trembling. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Call me Scarecrow,” said the man.
“Are you a cop?”
“I’m an agent.”
“I’d like to see some identification.”
“You’re holding my identification. With one call I could have your license to practice medicine suspended, and you arrested.”
“What do you want?”
“In the next hour or two, someone will contact your office asking if you can meet with a new patient, the daughter of Congressman Duncan Pierce. You will agree to do so.”
Scarecrow handed Froke a manila envelope. “Before meeting with this patient, you will study the contents of this envelope. When you meet with her, you will ask the questions we have suggested and follow the script we have provided. Afterward you will meet with her family. We have bullet-pointed what you need to stress with them. You will also emphasize this patient’s need for intensive therapy that will involve at least three sessions with you per week. To make it easy on the parents, you will agree to initially meet at their house before transitioning to your office for the suggested three-times-weekly sessions.”
“I don’t make house calls,” said Froke.
“As of today you do.”
“Who do you think—?”
Froke’s protestation was cut short when the man said, “I think if you don’t want your life as you know it to end on a tragic turn, then you had better do as you are told. We both know what a very bad boy you have been, Dr. Froke.”
With absolute certainty, Froke knew that this man and whomever he represented had him dead to rights. The shrink’s body betrayed him; every one of his sweat glands seemed to kick in at once. The pores of his face opened up and all but wept.
“I can see,” said Scarecrow, “that at this moment you’re only thinking of the downside of our relationship. But there is an upside.”
Scarecrow reached inside his coat pocket. Froke thought he was reaching for his gun, but instead he pulled out bundles of hundred-dollar bills.
“As a token of our goodwill,” said Scarecrow, “I’m giving you twenty-five thousand dollars. If you follow our protocols, if you do exactly as I say, we will continue to regularly reward you in similar increments.”
The bundles piled up in Froke’s lap like manna from heaven.
Scarecrow pulled out a cell phone and handed it to him. “Keep this phone on your person at all times,” he said. “If it rings, I will be the caller. No one else is to be present when you take the call.”
“What if I need to get in touch with you?” asked Froke.
“Press the number one and then hit the pound key,” said Scarecrow. “That will activate a prerecorded number. I will be the one who answers. But don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency. Is that understood?”
At Dr. Froke’s nod, Scarecrow took leave of the car.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cheever pulled his unmarked vehicle over to the side of the road. In any individual’s life, there are a few special moments you return to time and again. Cheever had a feeling this would be one of those moments.
“Can you repeat that?” he asked.
Sergeant Falconi was usually unflappable, but even he couldn’t hide his excitement as he relayed the news.
“Thanks,” said Cheever, not sure he could have managed more than a monosyllabic answer.
“I’m betting your next stop will be their house,” said the sergeant.
“Yes,” said Cheever, another solitary syllable.
“Good luck, then,” said Falconi, and clicked off.
Cheever distrusted his emotions, as did most men of his generation, but he couldn’t stop the tears from pouring down his face. Stella Pierce was home? It’s rare that someone goes missing for years and then turns up. Usually what turned up were remains. Cheever had always hoped the girl might return, but had never truly expected this day would come.
He had never given up on the investigation, though, and could still quote the casebook by heart. There wasn’t a report he hadn’t memorized. He could tell you the name of every neighbor not only on the Pierces’ street, but on all the nearby streets. Stella Pierce’s disappearance had been the greatest mystery of his life.
Not a week had gone by over the past seven years that the detective hadn’t talked to Eleanor, Duncan, or Michael. He kept them up-to-date on every lead he worked. They knew Cheever had put thousands of miles on his car investigating Stella sightings, and also knew he had done most of this work on his days off.
What they didn’t know was that almost every night, Cheever had fallen to sleep thinking about Stella and what he might have missed. He’d been divorced and not dating for many of the years spanning Stella’s disappearance, but during the past year he had entered into a rela
tionship with a shrink, Dr. Rachel Stern. Cheever had never tried to hide from Rachel his obsession over the case. To the contrary, he’d talked about it with her, asking for her input.
The one that had gotten away had consumed him, but finally he was going to get answers.
Cheever wiped his eyes dry, then set out for Del Mar.
Ten minutes into his drive, Cheever’s cell phone rang. His car’s display told him that Duncan Pierce was calling. “Accept call,” he said.
“I tried to get you at your desk,” the congressman said, “but you weren’t there, so I asked Sergeant Falconi to call you with the news.”
“He did.”
“I hope you’re on your way here.”
“I am.”
“I have a bottle of champagne I’ve been waiting to pop open for a long time,” said the congressman. “I want you to have the first glass.”
“In ten minutes you’ll be able to start pouring.”
Cheever hadn’t counted on the media phalanx, so he was three minutes later than promised. Seven years ago he’d hated the way the media watched his team’s every move. The fishbowl existence had made a difficult case feel like an impossible case.
A Union-Tribune reporter who had spent time working the crime beat recognized the detective and peppered him with some questions, but Cheever merely waved and yelled, “Good afternoon!” The cop’s friendliness took the reporter aback; Cheever’s intensity usually made for more glowers than smiles.
Of course Cheever knew his job was far from finished. In some ways it was just beginning. There were seven years of loose ends to tie up, but at least this was no longer a missing child case. Now he’d finally learn the details of Stella’s disappearance.
The congressman met him at the door, and the two men hugged. Behind closed doors there was more hugging. Duncan pressed a flute of champagne into Cheever’s hand, and the two men clinked glasses.
“To happily ever after,” said Duncan.
“Amen,” said Cheever. He took a solitary sip, then put the glass aside and took his first look at Stella in the flesh.
