MIDRAMB
“Open this one,” I said.
Theis opened MIDRAMB, and a page containing eight JPEG files filled the screen. Each JPEG had a date attached to it, spanning the past two and a half years.
I gripped the back of Theis's chair. I knew what the JPEGs contained without having to look at them. They were electronic snapshots of Skell's victims taken at McDonald's drive-throughs. I was one step closer to learning their fate.
I had dreamed of this moment. I was finally going to find out what had happened to Skell's victims. Yet, I was also filled with dread. Throughout the investigation, I'd continued to hope that I'd get a phone call from each of them, saying they were okay. It was what every person who lost someone told themselves.
Theis opened the first JPEG. The picture was of Chantel, an African American girl who got tossed out of her home at fourteen. She'd lived near the beach, where she did her hooking. The picture showed her in a car with a white-haired guy chomping on a cigar. Chantel's hand was in his lap, the guy all smiles. Coffen had caught her servicing a john.
“Know her?” Theis asked.
“She was Skell's first victim,” I said.
The next JPEG was of Maggie. Maggie worked for a Fort Lauderdale escort service, a fair-haired Irish girl whose stepfather had married her mother in order to sleep with Maggie. She worked the local hotels and was on a first-name basis with the concierges. In the picture, Maggie was on her cell while applying lipstick. Her face was all business, and I imagined Coffen overheard her getting a call for a job.
“What about her?” Theis asked.
“She was number two.”
“You knew all of the victims, didn't you?”
“Yes.”
“Want something to drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Want my chair?”
“I'm fine, really.”
Theis opened the rest of the JPEGs and let me study them. Had I not stuck the victims' photographs on the walls of my office, I wouldn't have recognized them so quickly. But I did, and their faces evoked a sharp pang of delayed grief.
In each photograph I searched for what Coffen saw, or heard, that alerted him to the potential for victimization. Most of the time it was obvious. Either the victim was talking on her cell, or she was talking to a passenger in the car. Some snippet of conversation must have tipped Coffen off to the type of person he was dealing with.
But in three of the photographs-those of Carmen, Lola, and Brie-there was no telltale clue. The women were in their cars, staring absently into space. They were all victims of family abuse, their faces hauntingly sad. I studied their photographs but learned nothing. Perhaps I would never know what Coffen had seen. Or perhaps he'd seen the same thing I just had. Three young women with faces like refugees. Maybe that was all he needed.
The office had a small refrigerator. Theis removed two bottles of Perrier and handed me one. Brie's picture was still on the screen. I drank while staring at her.
I'd stayed in contact with Brie for over ten years. Every few months we'd meet for a pancake breakfast, and she'd show me her most recent bank statement. She was saving up so that on her thirtieth birthday she could quit hooking and open a nail salon. She already had the location picked out, and the name: New Beginnings.
I pitched my empty bottle into the trash and headed for the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“I'm sorry this was a dead end,” Theis said.
Pulling his wallet out, Theis placed a snapshot of a young woman in a cap and gown on the desk, then got back on the computer. I stopped in the doorway.
“Who's that?” I asked.
“Danielle Linderman,” Theis said.
“Ken's daughter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You going to look for her on Coffen's database?”
Theis mumbled yes, his fingers tapping the keyboard. I came around the desk to get a better look at the photograph. Danielle Linderman bore a strong resemblance to her father, with a pretty, intelligent face and soft hazel eyes. The faces of scores of missing kids were stored in my memory, and I added hers to the group.
“Good luck,” I said.
I found Linderman in the reception area. He'd gotten Coffen's cell phone to work and was scrolling through the address book while pressing a hanky to his face. Lowering the hanky, he displayed a nasty gash running the length of his chin.
“Did the receptionist do that?” I asked.
He nodded grimly.
“Did you arrest her?”
“You're goddamn right I did,” he snapped. “So help me God, if I find out that little bitch knew what Coffen was doing, I'll ruin her.”
I didn't reply. More than likely, the receptionist didn't know that her boss was a predator. Coffen ran a respectable business and had a public face. That was the person she knew. Hearing he'd been killed, she'd snapped.
“How did you make out?” Linderman asked.
“We found photographs of Skell's victims on Coffen's computer, but nothing that will lead us to Jonny Perez,” I said. “Any luck with the phone?”
Linderman reapplied the hanky to his face. “So far, every number in the address book is a client's.”
“Who was he trying to call?”
“Another cell. I'm having the number traced.”
I had traced cell numbers before. It could take days to track them down.
I went outside to my car. Looking at the victims' photographs had reminded me how much I'd cared for those young women. It was hard to believe that I'd never speak with any of them again.
Opening the passenger door, I knelt down so I was eye level with my dog. Buster propped a paw on my shoulder and licked my face. I did everything I could not to cry.
I got behind the wheel and spent a few minutes massaging my leg. It was starting to feel better; the injury I'd suffered from my jump was just a sprain. I watched an ambulance carrying Coffen's body go past the building. In my wife's religion, the spirits of the dead never leave this earth. I imagined Coffen's ghost hovering over the ambulance, mocking us as we tried to unearth his dark secrets.
My cell phone rang. I took it off the dash and looked at Caller ID. It was Claude Cheever. I didn't want to talk to him and let the call go into voice mail.
My last encounter with Claude was still fresh in my mind. While Claude had been accusing me of sleeping with Melinda I'd heard another accusation as well, which was that he'd suspected it for a while. Which meant that all the honorable things he'd said about me in front of the police review board had been lies.
The phone rang several times over the next few minutes. Each time, Caller ID said it was Cheever. Finally I answered it.
“What do you want?” I said by way of greeting.
“Melinda was just on Neil Bash's show, talking about your affair,” Cheever said.
“Is that what you called to tell me?”
“No, no, calm down, buddy. I'm on your side.”
“You weren't the last time we got together.”
“I found Jesus and saw the light,” Cheever said. “You were right. Melinda was abducted from her apartment yesterday.”
You were right. I hadn't heard those words in a long time.
“What brought you to that conclusion?” I asked.
“While Bash was interviewing Melinda, he asked her where she was calling from,” Cheever said. “Melinda told Bash she was at home. I was driving near her apartment and decided to pay her a visit. I banged on the front door, looked through the back slider, and talked to the next-door neighbor. Melinda hasn't been home since yesterday. I didn't like it, so I called Bash's show.”
“You called Bash? Jesus Christ, Claude. Bash is part of it.”
“Don't worry. I've called Bash's show plenty of times. He knows me.”