Snake Skin (6 page)

Nowicki nodded and spoke into his radio.
When he'd finished, she asked, "So what's the story?"

"Mom got an anonymous call at 3:18 am. Found
the girl missing and called us. Apparently the girl told mom she'd
be babysitting, but when mom called the family they said they'd
never asked her to babysit. So when we got here, we thought it was
a runaway. No signs of forced entry, no signs of anything except
the kid and her stuff was gone."

"Kid have a history? Anything in NCIC?"

"Nope. But then after dad arrives—they're
divorced—mom insists the phone call was a ransom demand."

Nowicki's replacement arrived and they began
up the street to the end of the cul-de-sac and the beige brick
house.

"Really? So we've got a ransom kidnapping?"
Lucy wondered why she wasn't called sooner. Ransom kidnappings were
not only rare, they were the kind of case a small town department
immediately booted to folks with more resources.

"See, there's the problem. Looks like the
kid went voluntarily, even covered her tracks, last time she was
seen was yesterday at school."

"But the phone call?"

"Mom says it was a man's voice. He said 'we
got what you want,' laughed, then hung up."

"Sounds like a prank call. Could just be a
coincidence." Lucy walked faster, trying to process all the pieces
of the puzzle. What a mess.

"And then you've got dad. Who's apparently a
friend of Pittsburgh's mayor, who's a friend of the Sheriff—"

Ah, that explained a lot as well. They
reached the scene at the end of the street where there were less
civilians but if anything, more chaos.

"Thanks, Officer Nowicki."

"Good luck." He scrambled back towards the
safe haven of perimeter duty.

Ashley Yeager's home was a brick two-story
house, too large for the lot it sat on. It was the kind of house
kids avoided on Halloween because they knew they'd either get no
answer or a scrawny box of raisins. But the kind they'd also never
TP or egg—the house was too grim, too empty-hearted to make the
tricks any fun.

A blonde stood in the middle of the barren
lawn, beating her fists against a man's chest as he tried in vain
to restrain her. Her silver satin robe had come unbelted, its hem
trailing on the ground. Her feet were bare and muddy. The man wore
crisply pressed navy slacks and a matching silk polo.

He grabbed the woman's arms and held her in
place. The expression on his face was as blank as the brick wall
behind them.

"It's all your fault!" the woman
screamed.

A group of men surrounded the couple, none
of them attempting to intervene, all watching and listening
closely. No one seemed to notice the news crews at the end of the
block, their telephoto lenses aimed at the gathering.

Lucy pushed past several uniformed officers,
noting representatives from several jurisdictions: Plum,
Monroeville, Allegheny County. The Staties and PBP reps were in
plainclothes wearing various shades of brown suits—a good color for
crime scenes, it hid most of everything you might come in contact
with.

Lucy had exchanged her jeans and too-tight
tank top for khakis and a pair of white Reeboks. Had hoped to make
amends with Megan by wearing the twin-set she'd gotten Lucy for her
birthday, even though the light blue knit would make her look
washed out and sallow if the TV crews caught her in it. Which was
only one of many reasons why she had no intention of allowing that
to happen.

Although the Allegheny County Sheriff had
called the FBI in for assistance, Lucy had no intention of
strutting onto center stage and taking over their case. Her
greatest value lay behind the scenes, far from the spotlight.

The mother's hysterics continued unabated.
From the exasperated looks on the cops' faces, Lucy guessed this
had gone on for quite some time. She pushed through to the inner
sanctum, a cluster of three men, two in suits, one in a
brass-riddled uniform.

"Who's Incident Commander?" she asked.

"I am," all three said at once, confirming
her suspicions. Cluster-fuck with a capital fuck.

The three men stared at her. Since she
arrived in Pittsburgh, she'd begun a whirlwind tour of local
copshops, introducing herself to law enforcement brass of the one
hundred and twenty-three Pennsylvania agencies the SAFE/CAC unit
would be working with. She recognized one of the men: Dunmar of the
Allegheny County Sheriff's department. Ahh...the man with the fancy
toys.

He and his boss were the only cops involved
who were elected officials. She'd bet a dozen Krispy Kremes he was
the one with the hotline to the local media.

"Nice to see you again, Chief Deputy," she
said, extending her hand and plastering a smile on her face. From
his scowl it was obvious her invitation to join the game hadn't
been his idea.

"I'm so glad you were able to bring your new
incident command van out here to help us today." She bolstered her
lie by widening her smile until she feared her face would crack.
Tact, diplomacy, team building—she needed these men as much as they
needed her.

Not to mention a missing fourteen-year-old
girl who should be home right now listening to bubble-gum pop rock
and painting her toenails. Or whatever Ashley Yeager did to amuse
herself in the large, looming house that reminded Lucy of San
Quentin.

"Would you mind introducing me to your
colleagues?"

"Uh, sure." Dunmar jerked a thumb at the
brown-haired man in the tan suit to his right. "Don Burroughs from
the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police's Major Crimes Squad, and this,"
the thumb waggled to indicate a tan-haired man in a brown suit on
his left, "is Adam Lowery from the State Police."

Dunmar didn't introduce her, as if he
thought that would make her disappear. "Nice to meet you,
gentlemen. I'm Supervisory Special Agent Lucy Guardino from the
FBI's Sexual Assault Felony Enforcement Squad."

"Sexual assault? We don't need—"

She interrupted Lowery. "I'm sure you're all
aware that crimes against children fall under the SAFE unit's
purview. That includes abductions as well as high risk juvenile
runaways. Do we know which we're dealing with here?"

"Runaway," the Statie said.

"Snatched," Dunmar said.

Burroughs, the PBP detective remained
silent. He was too busy checking her out, his body posture
re-aligning itself into a wide-based stance, hands on his hips,
pushing his suit coat back, revealing his very big gun.

Ahh, one of those. She'd bet he didn't walk,
not like other mere mortals, instead he swaggered.

Ignoring his smile so wide that she could
count all his teeth if she was inclined to take the time, she
continued, "All right then. My job is to coordinate, to help in
anyway possible."

All three men bristled immediately. Lucy
kept her voice calm, non-confrontational. "To start with, which of
you is going to be our media liaison? Chief Deputy, I expect that
would be you?"

Dunmar puffed his chest out with
self-importance.

"Great. We're definitely having some crowd
control issues down the street. Maybe you could get some of your
people to deal with it and escort the media to a secure location?"
She eyed the obnoxious Incident Command van. She'd love to get it
out of sight, but the news crews and the family had already seen
it. Too late now.

"Who is conducting the search of the house
and the location where Ashley was last seen?" They appeared
startled at her use of the victim's name.

Cops usually tried to depersonalize victims,
especially when it involved kids. But right now, this early in the
case, she wanted these guys focused on Ashley—not on jurisdiction
or who would look best on the ten o'clock news. "Has someone
secured Ashley's room?"

"My guys cleared the house after the Plum
police did an initial sweep," Lowery, the Statie, said. "No sign of
her. Missus said a school bag and jacket were missing. Couldn't get
much more out of her than that."

He nodded in the direction of Ashley's
mother, now quiet, slumped against the rigid chest of the man she'd
been screaming at earlier. Still no tears, Lucy noticed. Right,
she'd get to the family in a minute. "Have you started a
canvass?"

"The last place she was sighted was
yesterday at school. In Monroeville," Burroughs said. "They called
us in as mutual aid—they're not equipped to deal with this kind of
thing."

"Sounds good. We'll need all the resources
we can get. Why don't you coordinate a search of her school,
canvass her teachers and as many class mates as you can track down?
We'll also need a walk and talk centering on the school, see if we
can nail down her movements. Can you and the Monroeville PD handle
that?"

Burroughs straightened his shoulders, taking
obvious umbrage at her implication. "We're good. I've already got
them working on photos and flyers."

"Has anyone contacted NCMEC yet?"

They looked at each other. "Er, we were just
getting to that."

"Lowery, why don't you take care of that
since we'll want state-wide coordination. I guess that leaves me to
deal with the family."

She frowned and darted a doubtful glance at
the couple standing a few feet away from them. The men seemed more
than relieved to relinquish that particular duty. Fine with her. If
they were going to get anywhere with this, it was going to come
from the family and what they did—or did not—know.

Even with stranger abductions, it was always
about the family. The ones left behind. Waiting.

"I'll get them inside." She gave the other
officers her card with her contact numbers and steeled herself to
handle the grieving family. The two detectives and Dunmar closed
ranks behind her, watching, judging the new kid on the block.

She didn't mind that—hell, she'd been
weighing their measure ever since she arrived on scene. It was
juggling the emotional napalm of the mother and father that was
going to be tricky.

"Hey, LT!" A familiar voice called. At last,
the cavalry had arrived.

Two very disparate men approached Lucy.
Special Agent Zach Taylor was SAFE's forensic computer technician,
fresh enough from his graduation from the Academy that he still
dressed in Hollywood inspired G-man fashion: narrow-lapelled black
suit, white shirt, dark tie, and Oakley sunglasses. His enthusiasm
and frequent repetition of the phrase, "back at Quantico they told
us..." made Lucy's teeth ache, but when it came to tech-stuff he
knew how to get the job done.

With him was an older, bald black man. Her
second in command, Isaac Walden, had the longest tenure of anyone
at SAFE: almost four years, first in Atlanta, now here with the new
unit in Pittsburgh. He was six years older than Lucy and no one had
been able to explain to her why he hadn't moved on. By all rights
he should have been promoted long ago to Supervisory Special Agent
in charge of his own team. In a unit where the stress level was so
high that mandatory psych evals occurred every six months, it was
unheard of for an agent to remain as long as Walden.

Taylor she had pegged as the class
clown—she'd already had to quash some of his rambunctious
limit-testing. No problem for a mother who'd survived one
toddler.

Walden, she wasn't as certain about. He
could be a serious head-case, burnt out, biding his time until
mandatory retirement. She hoped not, but for now she was
withholding judgment.

"Thanks for inviting us to the party,"
Taylor said as he reached her side. "Where do you want us?"

"You take the girl's room and any
electronics she may have access to. Walden, let's divide and
conquer the folks." She glanced beyond them to the ever-present
fourth estate whose ranks were swollen now from two news trucks to
three. "Inside."

Taylor bounded into the house like a lost
puppy scenting dinner. Walden remained at her side, letting her
take the lead.

"Hear you found my boys," Walden said as
they approached the distraught mother and the stone-faced
father.

"Safe and sound. It was a team effort—hope
you don't mind, I let the Staties take the credit."

He merely shrugged. Angry or agreeing with
her, she wasn't certain. She didn't have time to think about
it.

"Mr. and Mrs. Yeager? I'm Special Agent
Guardino from the FBI. Could we talk inside?" Both were silent.
Mrs. Yeager had her eyes squeezed shut and fists raised as she
leaned against the man. Lucy pried her away, the woman almost
collapsed in her arms, and led her to the house.

"My baby, where's my baby?" the mother
sobbed.

Chapter 6

Saturday 10:28 am

Lucy settled Melissa Yeager into a kitchen
chair. Without the red blotches covering her cheeks and the runny
nose, she would have been a beautiful woman. She had long blonde
hair, pulled back into a pony tail that emphasized high, cavernous
cheekbones, perfect teeth, a wide mouth, and a slender patrician
neck.

"Would it be all right if I made tea?" Lucy
asked. A panacea for grieving mothers.

"The cupboard beside the oven," the mother
stirred herself to answer. "What's your name again?"

She seemed calmer, more focused now that it
was just the two of them. Had the drama queen act been a
performance put on for the men outside? For the husband—rather,
ex-husband? The press? Or the cops?

Maybe all of the above. In Lucy's
experience, shock and fear brought out the worst in
people—including the need some people had to center the drama on
themselves rather than the true victims. She busied herself
microwaving two cups of herbal tea while examining the kitchen for
clues to its occupants.

Even though Lucy and her family had moved
here only three months ago, still had boxes to unpack, their
kitchen had already become the center of their universe. A large
calendar filled with everyone's schedule hung on the wall, Megan's
soccer cleats and shin pads lay on the floor beside the back door
sharing space with Lucy's running shoes, Nick's bike helmet hung on
the door knob, lopsided pottery coffee mugs proclaiming "greatest
Mom in the world" and "world's best Dad" were displayed with pride
on the windowsill above the sink along with a plaster cast of
Megan's pre-school handprint.