A high-school vice principal picking up an underage girl around midnight looks sketchy as hell. But there might be a perfectly reasonable—and legal—explanation. They could be having an affair. Or Pierson could be helping her flee an abusive family and move into a shelter. Either way, it’s not proof Pierson abducted or harmed any of those other poor girls. It won’t bring them back. And it won’t put him away.
“Run this address,” I tell my partner. “Find out who she is. I won’t let her out of our sight. I promise.”
Gina gives me a troubled look, but agrees. She opens the dashboard-mounted laptop between us and gets to work.
Meanwhile, I keep my eyes glued to the silver Honda, still just sitting there in front of the apartment complex. I’d give anything to know what’s happening inside.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper. “Get out of the damn car. Just walk away.”
No such luck. The Honda shifts into drive and pulls back onto Monterey.
A few seconds later, Gina and I are trailing it again. Now I leave only about one block’s distance between us. I’m not taking any chances.
“Okay, I think I got her,” Gina says, her acrylic nails clattering across the laptop keyboard. “Brittany Herbert, age seventeen. Goes by Britt. She’s a junior at SLO High. Lives in apartment 2C with her mom and stepdad. I found her Facebook page. Is this her?”
Gina flips the screen around to show me the profile picture of a teenager posing with some girlfriends, all puckering their lips for the camera, happy and carefree.
I’m positive that’s the same young woman I saw get into Pierson’s car.
This potential next victim has been identified. It just got personal.
“She lists her cell phone on her profile, too,” Gina says. “Maybe we text it.”
“And say what?” I ask. “‘Hi, Britt, we’re two undercover cops following the car you’re in. Don’t freak out, but your vice principal might be about to murder you’?”
“Fine,” Gina says, exasperated. “We’ll do this your way. But damnit, Andy, you’re taking a major risk here. I’m warning you…”
I nod, stiffly. The pressure’s on.
Pierson’s Honda cuts through SLO’s unimposing downtown, then heads toward the 101 freeway, which basically cuts San Luis Obispo in half. I start to worry that Pierson might merge onto it and try to spirit the girl out of town. I’d follow this bastard all the way to Canada if I had to, but the farther out they get from our jurisdiction, the tougher it will be to keep tabs on him and Brittany—and possibly call for backup.
Thankfully, the Honda cruises below the underpass and stays within the city limits. For now. But it keeps going, heading northwest, toward the town’s hilly outskirts.
Soon, I can start to make out some tree-lined ridges off in the distance.
Which makes my stomach drop.
I know exactly where they’re going.
Chapter 4
Bishop’s Peak. At over fifteen hundred feet, it’s the highest point in the region by far. With its stunning views of the city, it’s a popular draw for hikers, picnickers, and bird-watchers alike.
It’s also a nightmare for law enforcement.
The surrounding hillsides are rugged and treacherous. They stretch on for miles, a maze of winding trails and steep switchbacks. The tree cover is dense, the vegetation thick, the wildlife dangerous. And especially after sundown, the place gets darker than the North Pole during a lunar eclipse.
In other words, it’s the perfect location to kill a teenage girl and dump her body.
“Relax, man,” Gina says, touching my arm. After so many years of working together, she can practically read my mind. “This isn’t his spot. We combed the peak for miles in every direction. Not just three weeks ago, but every time. Remember?”
I couldn’t possibly forget. These hills are such an obvious choice to stash a kidnapping victim—dead or alive—that each time a girl has gone missing, the SLOPD pulled out all the stops. Most recently, we deployed multiple search parties, two circling rescue helicopters, even some K-9 units borrowed from the county sheriff. Officers worked around the clock for three days. We didn’t find a thing.
Still, that’s ice-cold comfort right now as the Honda reaches the end of the winding paved street…and rumbles onto a dirt service road.
If Pierson and Brittany just wanted to be alone for an hour or two, there are plenty of motels they could have gone to instead. What are they doing here?
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and keep their car in my sights.
Up the hillside we go, higher and higher. Since my headlights are still off, it’s getting almost impossible to see where the road ends and the steep ridge below begins. I have no choice but to drive even slower. If Gina and I crash, Brittany’s all on her own.
We round a particularly steep bend. When I think I’ve steered through, there’s suddenly a sick jolt—my front left tire is slipping off the road! Gina lets out a little gasp as I jerk the wheel to the right, barely keeping us from tumbling to our deaths. Cursing under my breath, I drive on.
“Hold up,” Gina says, pointing her index finger to the sky. “I think they stopped.”
Did they? I can’t tell. The Honda is just around the next ridge, momentarily out of sight. But I do notice the glow of its headlights is gone.
Why here? Why now?
No clue. But if there was ever a time to make our move, this is it.
I shut off the engine. “Let’s roll,” I say to my partner, who is already quietly opening her door—and drawing her sidearm. I do the same.
Crouching low, we creep slowly along the side of the wooded hill separating us from Pierson and Brittany. Trying to move through the underbrush is like traipsing through quicksand. I feel the prickly brambles and cacti scratch my skin through my clothes, but I ignore them and keep moving.
Finally we reach the crest. I look down at the Honda below—with horror.
Pierson is standing by the open passenger-side door, heaving Brittany’s limp body into his arms.
“Police! Don’t move!” I shout as Gina and I charge down the hill.
Pierson looks genuinely shocked to see us, a real deer in the headlights. He immediately releases the girl’s lifeless frame, letting her slump back into her seat.
Then he takes off running.
I nearly trip over myself rapidly changing direction downhill, trying to cut him off.
I’m no Usain Bolt, but thankfully neither is Pierson. I lunge for the son of a bitch and tackle him to the ground. Shoving his head into the dirt, I quickly holster my service weapon and snap handcuffs on him in seconds.
I look back at the Honda, fearing the absolute worst.
“How is she?” I call to Gina, who is kneeling beside Brittany, frantically searching for her pulse, lifting her eyelids to inspect her pupils. “Britt, can you hear me?” Gina says. “You’re safe now. Don’t be scared, Britt. It’s all over.”
I look back down at Pierson, his face dirty and bloody, his expression stony.
“You piece of shit!” I shout. “Did you kill her? Like you killed all the others?”
Pierson spits out a piece of gravel. Then his lips curl into a chilling grin.
“Actually, it’s worse than that. Much worse.”
Chapter 5
“Coffee, black. On the house.”
Gina thrusts a steaming Styrofoam cup of joe into my hands. I almost spill it all over myself, since my attention is elsewhere: I’m standing at the edge of a roped-off section of hillside, roughly fifteen feet by twenty, watching a team of crime-scene investigators wearing white full-body evidence suits carefully comb through it.
They’re looking for a mass grave they suspect might be underneath.
What a goddamn world.
“Thanks,” I reply, turning to face my partner. I have to squint a little, since she’s backlit by the rising sun. We’ve been at this all night. “Except I take three creams and four sugars, Gina. You’ve only kno
wn that for years.”
My partner shrugs. “I know your doctor wouldn’t mind the change.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, and take a careful sip of the bracingly hot, bitter beverage. Like Gina’s beloved sugar-free Red Bull—another little can of which she’s guzzling at the moment—I don’t know how people can drink this, either.
“Speaking of white coats,” I say cautiously, “any update on Brittany yet?”
“I just got off with the hospital. She’s stabilized, resting comfortably.”
Relief floods every cell of my body.
“Thank God. Okay. We need to get down there, talk to her as soon as she’s awake.”
“Doctors say it could be a while. Midday at least.”
“That’s fine. Have her labs come back?”
Gina tilts back her Red Bull can and drains the last few drops.
“Not yet. But based on her condition, they think Pierson slipped her some kind of sedative. Could be Rohypnol, maybe a ketamine derivative. My guess is, he hid it in that fifth of Smirnoff that was under the passenger seat, covered in her prints.”
“Sick bastard,” I mumble, simmering with rage. I bite down on my bottom lip, so hard it draws a few drops of blood.
“Detectives, a moment?”
The voice belongs to the bespectacled Dr. John Hyong, the SLOPD’s chief forensic pathologist. He’s walking toward us, peeling off his latex gloves. The way the rising sun reflects off his white jumpsuit and hood, he looks almost…ghostly. Which is grimly appropriate, actually. He’s been leading the team of techs searching for bodies for the past six hours.
“Find anything?” I ask, almost afraid to hear his response.
Hyong shakes his head.
“No trace. Our subterranean sonar imaging has also been inconclusive. We’re expanding the perimeter another ten feet all around. However, if we still don’t find—”
“I appreciate the update, John,” I say, deliberately cutting him off.
Because I know what this “expert” is going to say.
Hyong doesn’t think we’ll find shit buried in these hills. I practically had to beg him even to start a search. Hyong agreed only as a favor to me. He didn’t think the rocky hillside would make a good burial spot in the first place—and the police had already combed this ground multiple times.
I can’t say I blame him. There’s no evidence that Pierson took any of the other four victims up here.
In fact, there’s still no evidence linking Pierson to the other girls’ abductions at all.
But damn it, I was right about that creep this time!
Would he really drive Brittany Herbert all the way to Bishop’s Peak on a whim?
I don’t think so. There’s a method to his madness, and I’m going to figure it out.
And I’m going to find those girls. They’ve gotta be here somewhere.
Gotta be.
Chapter 6
I know I should wait for my partner to do this, but I can’t.
I should probably stop home first, too. Take a hot shower, grab a change of clothes, give my grimy teeth a quick brush. But I can’t do that, either.
There’s too much at stake. And no time to lose.
So while Gina swings by her place for a bit to help her girlfriend get their twins fed, dressed, and off to day care, I drive back to the Piersons’ house.
I want to have a little chat with Ellen.
The woman I’m convinced is the killer’s wife.
From our weeks of surveillance, I know Ellen usually gets up around six thirty. She goes for a quick jog around the neighborhood, has a light breakfast with her husband, then around eight heads to school—not San Luis High, where Pierson works, but Hawthorne Elementary, where she’s the school nurse.
Sure enough, when I pull into the driveway a few minutes before seven, the kitchen light is on. I spot Ellen inside wearing workout clothes. She’s holding a cordless phone to her ear and pacing anxiously.
Probably because she has no idea where her husband is.
On my way over, I spoke to the desk sergeant back at the station, who told me Pierson turned down the chance to make his one call. He hasn’t spoken to his wife, to the high school, to a lawyer—anybody. He’s just been sitting in his cell all night.
Does that sound like an innocent man to you, or a guilty one?
“Fine,” I said to the sergeant. “His choice. Let him rot.”
It feels a little strange to walk right up to the Piersons’ front door and ring the bell. I’m so used to sitting in my car with Gina down the block, watching it from the shadows. Seeing the place up close like this, I notice a few details I didn’t before. Like the mismatched screws holding the metal mailbox to the wall. The novelty welcome mat, old and fraying, with a yellow floral design around the word ALOHA.
The door opens, and Ellen stands there for a few seconds in stunned silence.
Up this close, I notice some new details about her, too. Like the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. And her subtly mismatched eye color: the left one is a faint emerald, the right one aquamarine.
“Mrs. Pierson? I’m Detective McGrath, SLOPD. I, uh…do you mind if…”
I’m suddenly a little tongue-tied myself. Something about this woman has caught me off guard. I always thought Ellen was nice-looking, if a little plain. But now I see there’s a magnetism about her.
“Is this about my husband?” she asks. “He was gone when I woke up. His car, too. I called his cell, but it was charging on the kitchen counter. Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. But he’s…been arrested.”
“Arrested?” Ellen covers her mouth with her hands as if she’s just seen a ghost. “No. No, that’s ridiculous. He didn’t do it!”
I feel my right eyebrow arch of its own volition.
“I didn’t tell you what he was arrested for, Mrs. Pierson.”
Ellen looks rattled. Scared. Caught?
“Why don’t we go inside and talk?” I say.
Ellen leads me into their quaint living room and right away begins nervously tidying the place up. Not that it needs it. In fact, the room is meticulously clean and orderly. Even the old magazines on the coffee table are in perfectly neat stacks.
“I—I’m sorry the place is such a mess. I had no idea anyone would be—”
“Please,” I say, gently touching Ellen’s forearm. Her skin feels clammy but supple and warm. “Let’s have a seat. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
We settle next to each other on a sagging beige couch.
“Does the name Brittany Herbert mean anything to you?”
Ellen squints, thinking, then shakes her head.
“What about Claire Coates, Samantha Gonzalez, Maria Jeffries, or Patty Blum?”
Now Ellen shuts her eyes tight.
“Those names mean something to everyone in this town,” she says. “They’re the four girls who…who…”
Ellen can’t finish the sentence. So I do it for her.
“Who all disappeared over the past twenty-two months. Presumed dead. Patty went missing just three weeks ago.”
“I know. My God, it’s so awful. Those poor girls. But what does this have to do with me and Michael?”
“We need your help finding the bodies, Mrs. Pierson.”
“My help? What are you talking about?”
Ellen isn’t making this easy. I have a feeling she knows a lot more than she’s letting on. But I have to play this carefully.
“You and your husband have been married for six years. But tell me: How well do you really know him? Do you think he’d ever be capable of—”
“Absolutely not!” Ellen exclaims, springing to her feet. “You think he…? This is crazy! Whatever you think Michael did…he’s a good man. He’s innocent!”
Ellen glares at me with her bicolored eyes, now wet with tears.
Her emotion is so real, so raw, I almost want to believe her.
Almost.
Chapter 7
>
I quickly backpedal and try to calm Ellen down. I assure her our investigation is ongoing and that no charges have been filed yet against her husband in connection with the four girls’ disappearances.
But then I tell her about his arrest last night.
About the underage student he picked up around midnight. How he drove her to a deserted patch of woods and drugged her to near cardiac arrest. Whether Michael Pierson is involved in those other four abductions or not, he sure ain’t a Boy Scout.
Ellen, her shoulders trembling, her voice cracking, sits back down on the couch and agrees to answer my questions.
We start with what she remembers about last night—which isn’t anything out of the ordinary. She’s just about done telling me what little she recalls about the nights the four other teens went missing, when I hear two vehicles pull up in front of the house.
I turn and look out the living room’s spotless bay windows. Three uniformed officers are exiting a pair of squad cars. Gina is with them, clutching a trifolded sheet of paper.
“My partner’s here,” I explain to Ellen. “With your permission, we’d like to search your house and yard. You can wait right here until we’re finished.”
Ellen stammers a bit, then nods.
“If you think it might help, go ahead. Please.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I tell her. “We appreciate that.”
What I don’t tell her is that I was asking simply as a courtesy, trying to curry a little extra favor with her. That document in Gina’s hand is a search warrant, signed by a county magistrate.
I greet my partner and the officers at the front door and bring them up to speed on my dealings with Ellen. Then we divvy up the house and yard, snap on some latex gloves, and get to work.
But when I reenter the living room, I see that one of the bay windows is wide open.
And Ellen is gone.
“Shit, we got a runner!” I say, reaching for my service weapon. “Gina, cover the front. You two, the sides. I’ll take the rear, see if she—”
“Are you looking for me?” comes Ellen’s shaky voice from the kitchen.
The House Next Door Page 11
