Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel (7 page)

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.”

Zack pulls his notebook back out. “Monitoring?”

“The computer can be tracked. As soon as I realized it was missing from the backpack, I told the police. They
are
tracking it. Right?”

“We’re going to look into that. Mrs. Clemons, could you give Agent Monroe any information you have about the tracking service?” Zack turns to me. “I’m going to call Mrs. Roberts and let her know we’re running a little late.”

“I have everything written down in my address book. Let me copy it for you,” Mrs. Clemons responds.

I follow her into the kitchen. “I’m sorry to make you go over this again.”

She finishes writing and presses a slip of paper into the palm of my hand. “Find Hannah.”

I drop it into the pocket of my jacket and retrieve a business card. “My office number. On the back is my cell. Call anytime.”

She takes the card and stares down at it. Tears roll down her cheeks and splash onto her hands. She doesn’t look up as we walk to the door. When I glance back, she still hasn’t moved. I close the door quietly behind us.

Hannah, where are you?

“Do you really believe we’re going to find these girls?” Zack’s tone is quiet, introspective, as he starts the car.

He doesn’t want to voice the obvious. Someone took Hannah. She’s been gone more than seventy-two hours. No word from her kidnapper. No ransom demand. Nothing.

The odds are not in her favor.

“I want to believe.” I turn to look out the window.
These girls, young, blond, innocent. They remind me of her. Persephone.
“I’ll call Billings about tracking the laptop.”

As Zack starts the car and throws it into reverse, I call the office.

Billings sounds surprised. “There was no mention of a missing computer in the initial report. You said you have some information about it?”

As Zack drives south to El Cajon, I pull the note from my pocket. I give Billings the Web site for the tracking service, as well as a log-in and password. I also ask him to put in a request with Johnson to find Hannah’s father.

“I can’t believe the PD didn’t initiate the trace right away,” Zack says when I’ve disconnected.

I don’t answer. I keep seeing the faces of the missing girls . . . so young, so full of promise. What could have happened to them?

Our next stop is the home of Sylvia Roberts. They live in a duplex on South Anza Street, close to downtown El Cajon. A chain-link fence surrounds each of the yards. The one on the right has a German shepherd standing guard. When we pull into the shared driveway, the dog goes bat-shit crazy, baring fangs, barking, and running up and down the length of the fence.

I step out of the car and nod toward the dog. “Does Killer here belong to the Roberts family?”

Zack walks over to the fence, hands stuffed in his pockets. As he approaches, the animal locks eyes with Zack, shrinks back. He lowers his head, whining—snarling beast turned cowardly lion.

“All bark and no bite,” I say as the dog slinks back to the porch, tail between its legs, whimpering.

Zack grins at me. “Sometimes having a big, bad wolf on your team comes in handy.”

I smile back.

The only light moment so far in an oppressive day.

The entrance to the duplex is through the gate to our left. No dog rushes out to challenge us. As soon as we step onto the porch, the front door opens.

“Are you Agent Armstrong?” A disembodied female voice from behind an opaque screen door calls out the question.

“Yes, ma’am,” Zack says, he lifts his badge. “FBI. Agents Armstrong and Monroe.”

The screen door is shoved open.

I follow Zack inside, the heavy perfume of incense
hitting us with the force of a blow. I actually see Zack’s nose twitch in protest.

Mrs. Roberts is standing to the right of the door, Mr. Roberts beside her. They are both tall, thin, solemn faced. Mrs. Roberts’ light brown hair is pulled straight back into a classic French twist. She’s dressed in a modest, navy blue A-line skirt that’s topped with a matching sweater set. Against the dark backdrop a small gold cross shines on a delicate chain. It’s the only jewelry she’s wearing other than her wedding band. Low-heeled black leather pumps ensure that she’s no taller than her five-foot-sixish husband, who is dwarfed by Zack. Mr. Roberts’ hair is close-cropped, graying at the temples. He’s wearing khaki slacks that have been starched and pressed with precision, immaculate polo shirt, brown loafers. On the wall to his right is a large crucifix.

Mr. Roberts leads us down the hall. “Abigail, get the agents coffee, will you?”

Zack holds up a hand. “No. Thank you. Please don’t go to the trouble. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Mrs. Roberts extends her arm, motioning us to go first. Despite the early hour, and the bright morning sun, the living room is dark when we enter. Drapes closed, shades drawn, lights out. My eyes focus on a framed portrait of Sylvia on a nearby table. A half dozen prayer candles surround it. One has gone out.

Mr. Roberts nods toward it as he opens the curtains. “Abigail, will you relight that one, please?”

While she busies herself pouring off the wax and trimming the wick, I notice two cushions on the floor. Two
sets of rosary beads, one on the table, and the other on a nearby chair. On the wall above the miniature shrine, a print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in a rather ornate frame looks down at us.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It looks as if we’ve interrupted your prayers.”

Mr. Roberts takes a seat on the sofa. “We’ve been taking turns saying the Rosary.”

Zack and I take our places on chairs beside each other.

As soon as the candle is relit, Mrs. Roberts joins her husband on the couch. Their expressions are drawn, dark circles smudge their eyes. Where Mrs. Clemens was desperate and frazzled, plagued by the relentless need to do something, this couple is eerily quiet.

Zack begins with words of concern for what the couple is going through and explains that we will likely be asking some of the very same questions the police asked earlier.

Mr. Roberts bows his head in acknowledgment.

I repeat the litany of questions we asked Julie’s parents and Hannah’s mother for the third time.

Mr. Roberts takes the lead, answering by rote, mostly in monosyllables.

Did Sylvia know Julie or Rain? No.

Did she know Hannah? Yes.

How did she know Hannah? Cheerleading.

Was she having trouble in school? No.

Was she having trouble at home? No.

Did she have a boyfriend? No.

When did they last see Sylvia? The morning she
disappeared. She left on foot like she does every Saturday morning to attend catechism. She never returned.

Mrs. Roberts sits still and quiet, her face betraying nothing as she listens to her husband.

That changes, however, when we bring up the subject of the checking account.

Like he did with Mrs. Clemons, Zack produces a spreadsheet of their daughter’s account and places it on the table in front of them.

“What is this?” Mr. Roberts asks, taking a pair of readers from his shirt pocket.

“It’s a copy of the bank activity for an account in your daughter’s name.”

“Not possible.” Mr. Roberts’ reply is automatic, even as his eyes continue to scan the sheet. He reaches the account balance and blinks up at us. “Twenty-two hundred dollars?”

Mrs. Roberts’ shoulders jump. “How much?”

Zack turns the sheet so she can see it, too. “The deposits started in mid-June.”

Mr. Roberts shakes his head emphatically. “That just can’t be.”

“She might have earned twelve hundred over the summer. Maybe the bank made a mistake?” Mrs. Roberts suggests.

“We don’t think so,” replies Zack. “Tell us how your daughter spent the summer?”

Mrs. Roberts answers first. “She started working for the Spirit Group as soon as school got out. The job lasted right up to Labor Day weekend.”

“Spirit Group?” I ask. “Is that a religious organization?”

“No. They run cheerleading camps in Julian. Five two-week sessions through the summer. In exchange for her work, she was able to attend the camp for free.”

“You said she started working as soon as school was out. Did she do anything else?”

Mr. Roberts nods. “She took a school trip—a week visiting college campuses. Most rising juniors go.”

Mrs. Roberts glances down at the bank statement. “This is a mistake.” Her tone is adamant. “This money. It has to be a mistake.”

“The mistake,” Mr. Roberts snaps at his wife, “was letting Hannah be a cheerleader. I told you it was a bad idea from the beginning. She’s fallen in with the wrong crowd.”

Zack leans forward. “What do you mean, Mr. Roberts?”

“Peer pressure. Someone must have duped or . . . or . . . coerced her into doing something unseemly. She’s compromised her principles and now she’s in trouble and too afraid to come to us.”

“I don’t believe that, Stewart.” It’s Mrs. Roberts’ turn to bare her teeth. “Sylvia is smarter and stronger than that, she would never compromise her values. No. She’s sick or hurt.”

Something squeaks outside. The dog in the yard next door begins to bark.

She tilts her head toward the door and rises abruptly. “Was that our gate?”

Her husband reaches for her hand. “No, dear, it was the one next door.”

She turns to Zack and me. “I know Sylvia will have an explanation for this when you find her. Mark my words.”

When
you find her. Not if.

I find myself admiring her faith.

Zack folds the sheet and slips it back into his pocket. “Do you mind if we have a look at Sylvia’s room?”

“The police have been all over it,” Mr. Roberts grumbles. “They left it in shambles.”

Mrs. Roberts shoots her husband a disapproving look. “Of course you can look at Sylvia’s room. It’s the first door on the right. I think I’ll make that pot of fresh coffee. I could use a cup. Let me know if either of you change your mind.”

Zack and I head to Sylvia’s room, leaving Mr. Roberts sitting alone on the couch. The sound of the water running in the kitchen drifts down the hall. As soon as we close the bedroom door behind us, Zack says, “Prayers and Pledge. It’s been an interesting morning.”

I look around Sylvia’s room. “Doesn’t look like it’s in a shambles to me.”

“Bet you lunch Mrs. Roberts cleaned it up.”

Like that of the other two girls, Sylvia’s furniture is plain and functional—bed, dresser, desk. The walls are a cheerful yellow. The bedspread is bright pink and covered with a splash of Gerbera daisies. The color and light in the room are a sharp contrast to the austerity of Sylvia’s parents and the rest of the apartment. The only common touch linking the two spaces is the crucifix above the dresser. I make my way over to the desk. A bulletin board hangs above it, covered with candid photos. A framed montage of pictures of Sylvia with the cheerleading team—action photos from school sporting events, group shots from social events, Sylvia alone and . . . Sylvia with Hannah. I point the last one out to Zack.

He nods. “I’ll take the closet,” he says.

“I’ll start here.” The top of Sylvia’s desk is neat and tidy. There’s a stack of textbooks on one corner, and a caddy containing pens, pencils, and paper clips. The drawers are organized, as well. The top one contains a stack of notebooks. I flip through them—Sylvia’s class notes in a precise hand. Nothing additional. No doodles. No apparent missing pages. The second drawer holds a variety of magazines—typical fare for a teenage girl. Fashion magazines, a couple of teen mags, a dog-eared copy of
People
. In the bottom drawer I spy a messenger bag.

“Bingo!” I slide an older-model laptop out of the bag and flip open the lid. Pressing the power button yields nothing but the same, a black screen. “Looks like it’s out of juice.”

“Is there a power cord?” Zack asks.

I check the bag’s zippered compartment. “Yes, along with a small external hard drive. I’ll bag them.”

We quickly complete the rest of the search, turning up nothing of interest. No checkbook, no diary, no secret hiding place. Unless Billings is able to get something off of Sylvia’s laptop, the morning’s been a bust. Time is slipping past, like water through a sieve. We’re no closer to finding these girls now than we were yesterday.

We leave Sylvia’s parents with the same promise to be in touch that we’ve made twice before. When I reach the car, I glance back. Mrs. Roberts is standing at the living room window, watching.

Waiting.

“Lunch?” Zack asks.

“I’d like to get this laptop to Billings,” I answer. “It’s
about the only thing we’ve got to show for this morning’s work. How about we drop it off, then go grab some burgers?”

“Downtown Hodad’s?”

I nod. “Perfect. I’ll text Billings and let him know we’re bringing in another laptop.”