“I don’t need a smartphone. Cheapest thing you have as long as it calls and texts.”
He set her up with a flip phone made of gray plastic.
“Everything’s the same? Passwords? Voice mail?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re good to go.”
She signed the receipt, returned to the car, and sat beneath blue sky and a pillar of heat. Punching keys, she called voice mail. Seven were from reporters. Two were from Beckett and six more from Dyer.
The last was from Channing.
Elizabeth played it twice. She heard scraping sounds and breathing, then three words, far and faint but clear.
Wait. Please. Don’t.
It was Channing’s voice. No doubt. Faint as it was, the girl sounded terrified. Elizabeth played it again.
Wait.
Please…
She didn’t hear the third word that time, disconnecting the phone instead and gunning out of the lot. Channing would have bonded out by now-as wealthy as her father was, there could be little question of that-but where would she go?
Elizabeth called Channing’s cell phone and, when she got no answer, steered for the rich side of town. Her father’s house had tall walls, privacy. He’d want to keep her there and buttoned down. Maintain control. Avoid the media.
The last part was a joke. Elizabeth saw the news trucks from two blocks out. It wasn’t the A-list talent-they’d be at the church or the station-but it was a lot of energy, even for a double killing. It was the optics of race and politics, of torture and execution and Daddy’s little girl. No one recognized Elizabeth until she turned for the drive, then the shouting started.
“Detective Black! Detective!”
But, she was through the line before anyone got organized. Fifty feet up the drive she hit private security. Two men. Ex-cops. She recognized them both. Jenkins? Jennings? “I need to see Mr. Shore.”
One of the men approached the car. He was in his sixties; wore a decent suit. A four-inch Smith rode his belt. “Hey, Liz. Jenkins. Remember?”
“Yeah. ’Course.”
He leaned into the window, checked the seats, the floorboards. “I’m glad you’re here. Mr. Shore’s pretty upset.”
“About what?”
“Your timing.”
“That makes no sense.”
“What can I say?” Jenkins keyed the radio, told the house she was coming. “Everything’s a bitch when your kid goes missing.”
“What?”
He stepped back rather than answer the question.
Missing kid?
That couldn’t be good.
“Straight up to the house. Mr. Shore’s waiting for you.”
Elizabeth took her foot off the brake, the drive twisting past statuary and formal gardens. The short distance felt longer. By the time Elizabeth parked, Alsace Shore was on the bottom step. He wore jeans and another expensive golf shirt. Twenty feet out, she could see the flush in his neck. “How dare you wait so long?” He stormed across the cobbled drive. “I called the department three hours ago!”
Elizabeth climbed from the car. “Where’s Channing?”
“You’re supposed to tell me that.” He was coming undone. No question. Behind him, his wife huddled in the open door.
“How about we start at the beginning?”
“I’ve explained this twice, already.”
“Do it again.” His mouth snapped shut because she was cold and hard, and people rarely used that tone with him. Elizabeth didn’t care. “Tell me everything.”
It was difficult for him to do, but he swallowed his pride and told her about the drive from court and the awkwardness between them, about the pink room, the hot chocolate, and the open window. “She’s not thinking right. It’s like she’s a totally different person.”
“I think she is.”
“Don’t be flip.”
“She’s snuck out before,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, but not like this.”
“Explain.”
He struggled, and other emotions broke through. “She was in a dark place, Detective. Resigned. Untouchable. It was as if she’d given up on everything she’d ever been.”
“She’s in shock. Are you surprised?”
“Jail, I suppose. The threat of prison.”
“It’s not just jail, Mr. Shore. I warned you about this before. She was abused until she broke, then killed two men in defense of her own life. Did you think to tell her you understood? That maybe you’d have done the same thing?”
He frowned, and she knew he had not. “You’ve seen the photographs?”
“I don’t need to see them, Mr. Shore. I was there. I lived it.”
“Of, course. I’m sorry. This day…”
“Did she take anything with her?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Leave a message of any kind?”
“Just the open window.”
Elizabeth studied the girl’s window, remembering her own childhood room and the one time she’d gone down the tree beside it. “She’s not a minor, Mr. Shore. The police won’t consider her missing until she’s been gone for at least twenty-four hours. If anything, they’re worried she’s jumping bail, which means any looking they do is the kind you probably don’t want.”
“I don’t care. I just want her found.”
Elizabeth held his eyes and saw that he was begging. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Friends? Places? Something she kept secret or didn’t want you to know about?”
“Honestly, Detective, the only person or thing she seems to care about is you.”
Elizabeth saw it then, so clearly.
“I love her, Detective. I may not show it, not with the houses, the career, the issues with my wife. I may not show it, but my daughter is my life.” He put a palm across his heart, the red now in his eyes. “Channing is my life.”
Elizabeth had seen it a thousand times before: people taking others for granted until the others were gone. He was close to tears when she left, a large man, breaking.
She felt the smallest sympathy.
Back at the street, reporters collected at the end of the drive, cameras up and the questions louder. Three of the boldest blocked the exit, and Elizabeth accelerated so there would be no confusion about her intent.
There wasn’t.
When she was through she moved faster, skirting the center of town this time, then turning down a narrow one-way street lined with white picket and wisteria. That was the back way into her neighborhood, and it shaved a few minutes off her time, the old car complaining at the first ninety-degree turn. The next street was hers-a shaded lane-and she raced its length without apology or regret. Everything felt wrong, not just Channing’s message but Elizabeth’s choices, too. She should have kept the girl closer, never left town. Explanations rose in her mind, the possibility of lost phones or resentments or miscommunications. But, nothing was that clean.
Wait.
Please.
Don’t.
Elizabeth made the driveway and left the car running. She found a broken bottle on the porch, and a glass turned on its side.
“Channing?”
The door grated on its broken hinge, and she moved through the empty house, calling the girl. She checked the backyard, then searched the house again. No note. No sign. Back outside, she took her time on the porch, finding a flowerpot out of place and a dark smear she knew was blood. She touched the stain, then tried Channing’s cell again and found it ringing in a bush beside the porch. She stared at it, disbelieving, then broke the connection.
The girl was gone.
29
By the time Elizabeth reached the station a lump of dread had settled in her stomach. Something was wrong, and it was something bad. The message and the blood, the broken bottle and the lost phone. Channing went to Elizabeth’s house, but would have stayed there. She had no doubt. The girl was in trouble. But nothing meaningful could be done without access to police resources, and that could be a problem.