In the Dark

by Chris Patchell

  “Send the paper work to my home address,” she called over her shoulder as she strode to the door.

  She could probably sue for wrongful dismissal. God knew she needed the money, but right now it was the least of her worries. All she could think about was finding Brooke.

  “Just a moment, Ms. Rooney, if you please.”

  What now? Marissa turned and glared down into Holt’s lined face. Holt raised a gnarled finger.

  “I do have another job opening . . .”

  “Another job?”

  “Yes. One for which I believe you’re uniquely qualified. Please sit.”

  Marissa gripped the purse strap tight, torn. Was Holt screwing with her? Part of her wanted to march out of the office and never look back. Part of her knew she had to listen. Reluctantly she resumed her seat across from Holt. The old woman smiled.

  “You see, I’m starting a new foundation. That’s why I was visiting the office yesterday morning. I’ve asked Regis to draw up the papers for me.”

  “What kind of foundation?”

  “Its purpose is to help victims of violent crimes and their families.”

  Marissa’s head swam. She tried to grasp what Holt was saying. Hugging her purse to her chest, she shook her head.

  “I don’t understand. How do your plans for the foundation involve me?”

  “My dear Ms. Rooney, I would think it would be quite obvious. Your daughter is missing, and I want to help. I’m going to need an executive assistant to help me launch the foundation, and you happen to be out of a job.”

  Marissa stared at Holt, dumbfounded. She was a receptionist, not an executive assistant. Why would Holt want her? Before she could utter a word, Holt continued.

  “I propose we make the search for your daughter the foundation’s first case.”

  Was she hearing this right? Was she dreaming?

  “You want to help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Holt eased back in her chair, a flicker of emotion crossing the old woman’s lined face. Her flinty blue eyes were softer now, and Marissa waited. Holt reached beneath the collar of her shirt and pulled out a golden amulet at the end of a fine chain. From this angle, it looked like some kind of religious symbol, like a saint or an angel. Elizabeth Holt rolled it thoughtfully between her finger and thumb. At last she spoke.

  “I’ve spent half my career, and a good chunk of my fortune, looking for ways to help families in crisis, Ms. Rooney. You see, when I was a young college student, much like your daughter, I was attacked in my dorm room. The terror of that day is something I will never forget. In the years that followed, I looked for ways to deal with my own trauma and heal my own wounds. I became a lawyer to fight for justice—not just for me, for all victims.”

  Holt released the amulet, and it disappeared in the folds of her blouse. She straightened.

  “Eventually I realized justice wasn’t enough. There will always be more predators than there will be jail cells to house them, and predators are very difficult to catch. I want to do more while I still have time—to create a foundation that will provide resources to the people who need them most, to help victims and their families get on with their lives.”

  Marissa was stunned by Holt’s revelation. Elizabeth Holt, wealthy, powerful, successful beyond measure, a victim? She couldn’t imagine it.

  “I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter’s disappearance. I want to help.”

  “How?”

  “By giving you access to resources to help find her. By providing support for the search that you otherwise would not have.”

  “And what would I have to do?”

  Holt tented her fingers underneath her chin and smiled.

  “Mainly, you would focus on the search for your daughter. But along the way, I will ask you to do a number of things to help make my dream of the foundation a reality.”

  “It sounds too easy, too good to be true.”

  “Easy?” Holt raised her eyebrows. “Oh no. Quite the contrary, Ms. Rooney, there will be nothing easy about it. You have faced many challenges in your life so far, but you have not given up. You have worked hard to better yourself, to build a life for your daughters. You are strong, and by the way you stood up to Ms. Benoit yesterday, I could see that you have got a lot of fight in you. That is good. You are going to need it. You are going to need every bit of strength you possess if you are going to survive this ordeal.”

  Holt’s words chilled Marissa. Crossing her arms, she settled back into her chair.

  “First, you are going to need to trust me. Can you do that?”

  Marissa squirmed under Holt’s appraising eye. Trust? Everyone she trusted had betrayed her. Her mother. The men in her life. How could she learn to trust a woman she didn’t even know?

  “You want to find your daughter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then join my foundation. Let me help you find Brooke. I am warning you, though, as a prosecutor I have seen a number of these types of cases. They are often hard and ugly. Happy endings are a fantasy reserved for the movies. This ordeal will change you. It will change your daughter in ways you cannot begin to imagine. Let me ask you, Ms. Rooney, are you ready to face the road ahead, no matter how painful it might be?”

  “I have no choice.”

  Holt leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised. “Indeed you do not.”

  Marissa swallowed, her mouth as dry as sandpaper. “So, where do we start?”

  Holt inclined her head, a slight smile on her lips.

  “First we go to the police. We find out what on earth they are doing to find your girl. Second, you write a press release.”

  “A press release?”

  How the hell was she going to do that? No doubt Holt could whip one off in her sleep, but Marissa didn’t know where to begin.

  “We need to engage the media in the search for Brooke. A press release is the first step.” Holt paused, her cobalt eyes never leaving Marissa’s face. “Shall we get started?”

  “Yes,” Marissa said.

  Chapter 14

  Elizabeth Holt stepped out of the limousine. The wet wind whipped off Puget Sound. Holt’s black coat billowed around her narrow frame like a cape. She swept up the staircase, entering police headquarters like she owned the place. Marissa followed close behind. They crossed the lobby, heading for the front desk, where a young, clean-cut officer sat. He looked up as they approached, recognition registering on his narrow face.

  “I’m here to see the chief,” Holt said before he opened his mouth.

  He glanced at a flat-screen monitor in front of him.

  “Do you have an appointment, Ms. Holt?”

  “I do not.”

  Still staring at the computer screen, the young officer angled his head to the right.

  “I’m afraid his schedule is booked.”

  Holt cast a withering smile in his direction and pulled her phone out of her purse. She dialed a phone number and waited. With each passing second, the apprehension on the young man’s face grew.

  “Elizabeth Holt here. I need to speak to Marty. No, he most certainly cannot call me back. I need to speak with him now.”

  Marissa’s eyes widened. Marty? She couldn’t even get the police to call her back, and here Holt was calling the mayor. What must it be like to have such powerful connections?

  “Interrupt him. This will only take a few minutes,” she said in a hard voice, the thin veneer of civility stripped away.

  Holt waited. Marissa stole a sidelong glance at the officer manning the desk. He was pretending to ignore Holt, but she could tell he was hanging on every word.

  “Marty, I have a situation. I need to see Chief Abrams. Now. It’s about a missing-persons case.”

  Holt bent her head, her sour mouth pursed, looking displeased as she listened to the mayor’s response. Marissa’s hopes plummeted. They weren’t just going to waltz in there to see the chief. Even the great Elizabeth Holt’s influence ha
d limits.

  “No, Marty, I am afraid that is not good enough. Did you hear the news? I’ve made Fortune magazine’s list of most powerful women.” She paused. “Thank you. I’m planning to talk to Lesley Stahl from 60 Minutes about the nomination tomorrow, but now . . . well, turns out the publicity might aid my cause, though I was hoping to discuss the matter with the chief first. Of course, if he’s too busy . . .”

  Marissa gaped at Holt’s brazen play. She wasn’t just cutting through the bureaucratic red tape—she was shredding it.

  “That would be fine. The girl’s name is Brooke Parker. She’s a nineteen-year-old college student from UW. I also want to meet the detective assigned to the case.” Holt’s chin jerked in a tight nod. “Excellent. Thanks for your help, Marty.”

  Elizabeth Holt dropped her cell phone in her purse. Two beats of silence passed before the telephone at the front desk rang. The officer stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. His eyes flicked to Holt’s face. She raised her eyebrows in expectation, and Marissa waited, hope coiled like a spring in her chest. He answered.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and hung up the phone. “Ms. Holt, the chief will meet you upstairs in twenty minutes. I’ll have you escorted up immediately.”

  They entered a large conference room and Elizabeth seated herself at the head of the long cherrywood table. Too keyed up to sit, Marissa paced the length of the room. Holt hadn’t been exaggerating her influence. She was astonishingly well connected. After her phone call with Detective Crawford, Marissa hadn’t heard a peep; now here she was, waiting for an audience with the chief of police. And all it had taken was a short, contentious phone call to the mayor.

  The chief of police, John Abrams, marched crisply into the room, a phalanx of uniformed officers in tow. Abrams was a trim man in his midfifties with salt-and-pepper hair and piercing brown eyes. He had an erect military bearing and moved with a quick, efficient stride. After taking up a position at the foot of the table, Abrams introduced the two other police officers.

  “This is Captain Moses Lindquist from the West Precinct and Lieutenant Brad Alvarez.”

  Each man reached across the table to shake their hands—Holt first, Marissa second—before everyone settled around the table. Tension showed in the men’s tight, polite smiles. They didn’t want to be here, but they had no choice.

  “Ms. Holt, it’s a pleasure to see you,” Abrams said. “How can I be of service?”

  “Good of you to see me, Chief Abrams. Who has been assigned to the case?”

  “Detective Crawford.”

  “And where might this Detective Crawford be?”

  “He’s out in the field, ma’am. We don’t need to wait for him. I’m sure we can handle this,” Lindquist said.

  Abrams had a good poker face. He looked pleasant, as if he were meeting with a colleague for coffee, with no trace of resentment on his face. She shouldn’t be surprised. Political savvy was a must for anyone in his position.

  “As I’m sure the mayor informed you, I am here because Ms. Rooney’s daughter has gone missing. I was hoping you could get us up to speed on the investigation.”

  Holt’s stern gaze swept the room, from Marissa to Chief Abrams, and settled on the police officers, who were seated to his right.

  Captain Lindquist spoke first. He was a middle-aged man with a powerful build, thick through the shoulders and chest. He swung his bright-blue eyes toward Holt.

  “So far we have found no evidence indicating that Brooke Parker was abducted.”

  Lindquist’s matter-of-fact tone rattled Marissa. All illusions she’d had of the police snapping to evaporated.

  Holt jumped in.

  “Evidence? You mean an eyewitness swearing that some monster swept Ms. Parker off the steps of the Chapel and shoved her into a van? Is that the type of evidence you are looking for, Captain?”

  Lindquist’s eyes narrowed.

  “Of course not. We’ve talked to people who saw Ms. Parker at the club that night. No one saw or heard anything that leads us to believe Ms. Parker left against her will. Additionally, she posted a message on her Facebook page saying she was heading out of town . . .”

  “And I suppose no one has ever hacked a Facebook site?” Holt asked with mock naïveté.

  A grim smile stretched across Holt’s lips, and Marissa realized the old woman loved this; she loved going to war.

  “It’s presumptuous to think someone would go to such lengths to—”

  “Cover up a crime?” Holt interrupted, eyebrows cocked. “Surely you don’t believe that, Captain Lindquist.” She flattened a bony hand against her sagging chest and said, “If I was brazen enough to snatch a girl up from a local bar, is it that much of a stretch to think I might cover my tracks?”

  “And can you hack Facebook?”

  “Me?” She touched her fingers to her chest and grinned at Captain Lindquist. “Hardly. I am barely capable of using my cell phone. I would be willing to wager that in less than twenty minutes, I could find someone who can.”

  Lindquist’s lips compressed into a thin, angry line.

  “So tell me, just how will the department look if it fails to investigate the disappearance of a teenaged girl?”

  “Hold on, now. Let’s back up,” Chief Abrams said, raising a hand. “No one is saying we’re not investigating the case. However, at this point, we have no reason to suspect foul play. So, Ms. Rooney, help us understand what you think happened to your daughter.”

  Marissa fidgeted in her chair and her mind went suddenly blank. She had been foolish to think Holt would handle everything for her. Her mouth bone-dry, she struggled to compose her response as all eyes turned toward her. Marissa fixed her gaze on Lindquist. There was nothing friendly about his answering look.

  “Captain,” she began in a shaky voice, “I haven’t seen or heard from Brooke in three days. I believe something has happened to her.”

  He grinned. She hated that grin. It made her feel small and stupid.

  “No disrespect intended, Ms. Rooney, but your daughter is not a kid anymore. She doesn’t have to tell you where she’s going or ask your permission.”

  Marissa glanced over at Holt, hoping she would jump in and crush all remaining doubts that Brooke was a runaway, but Holt was staring back at her. They all were.

  “Brooke’s a diabetic. She needs her medication to stay alive.”

  “Yes,” Lindquist said. “A condition your daughter has managed for years. There is no reason to think that she can’t manage it now, right?”

  “Not necessarily. If she was taken, she might not have medication with her.”

  “Any way to know that for certain?”

  “No,” Marissa said, rattled but still determined to plow ahead. “She missed her sister’s recital. Brooke is not the kind of girl who would fail to show up, not to something she knows is important to her sister. I haven’t heard a single word from her. Normally she sends me a text or calls almost every day. It’s unusual for her to go dark, especially for this long.”

  “Ms. Rooney . . . ,” Lindquist said. He was going to dismiss her again. She could tell.

  A slow flush of anger warmed Marissa’s cheeks. She couldn’t let him shut her down. Not now. She had to fight for Brooke. She couldn’t let them intimidate her into silence. The police said they were investigating the case, but she knew time was their enemy. She knew in her gut something was very wrong and stalling could cost Brooke her life.

  Marissa’s gaze hardened and she leaned forward in her chair.

  “Do you have teenagers, Captain Lindquist?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, angling back.

  “Is your teenager surgically attached to her cell phone? I know my daughter is.”

  Lindquist reluctantly dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “Have you checked Brooke’s phone records?”

  Lindquist’s gaze dropped to the table and Marissa knew what that meant—she’d scored a point. Her confidence grew.

  “In the
eyes of the law, Ms. Rooney, your daughter is an adult with a right to privacy. We need to compel her service provider to release her cell phone records, and in order to do that, we’d need a warrant.”

  “Then get a warrant,” Marissa said. She pushed out of her chair and eyed each of the police officers in turn. “Even her roommate hasn’t heard from her since Saturday night. Brooke is missing classes, and that’s not at all like her. She’s coming up on exams. She wouldn’t just leave town without a word to anyone. I don’t care what her Facebook page says; there is something wrong. I know it. I need you to find out what it is.”

  Lindquist cast a glance over at Chief Abrams. The chief nodded. But before he could speak, Lieutenant Alvarez jumped in.

  “We’re working on it, but I have to tell you, Ms. Rooney, I get calls like this all of the time. Just last month there was a girl reported missing. Everyone agreed she was a responsible kid that would never just leave without letting her parents know. She met a boy at a party and took off for a weekend without telling her parents or her boyfriend where she was going. If we spent our time running down every single one of these cases . . .”

  “Tell me, gentlemen, is Brooke Parker the only girl missing?” Holt interrupted, staring at Lindquist like she already knew the answer.

  In the burgeoning silence, Holt beckoned toward Marissa. Hands shaking, Marissa pulled the missing-person flyer from her purse and slapped it on the table.

  “What about Kim Covey?” Marissa asked. “Have you found her yet?”

  Marissa slid the flyer into the center of the table. All the cops in the room glanced at it, then quickly looked away. Marissa caught Holt’s approving nod.

  Alvarez looked like he was about to explode.

  “We know how to do our jobs, Ms. Rooney. At this point there is no reason to think your daughter knew Kim Covey. They moved in different circles.”

  Marissa slammed her palm hard on top of the flyer. The sound echoed in the room.

  “Have you found her yet?”

  She stared directly into the lieutenant’s eyes. Alvarez looked away first.

  “No, but the last thing we need is for the public to panic about some psychopath out there abducting college girls.”