Lauren sighed. “So what do I do now?”
“Well, there’s not much for you to do. It’s in our hands now, ours and the law enforcement community’s.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“Report of your husband’s disappearance has been entered into CLETS, an electronic database information system that extends from one tip of California to the other. Anytime someone fitting your husband’s description is stopped by law enforcement personnel, we get notified. Your report is also sent to the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Every night this report is compared against unidentified — deceased reports that come in from coroners across the country. If we get a hit — I mean, a match, we compare the unidentified person with the missing person information we have — by looking at scars, teeth impressions, fingerprints—”
“But that’s after someone’s dead,” Lauren said, fighting back a knot in her throat. “What do you do while they’re alive?”
“That’s mostly the job of law enforcement. You should be sure to tell them everything you possibly know about your husband, who he might have had disagreements with, where he might go, that sort of thing. It’s important to be thorough.”
Lauren glanced at the photos hanging behind Ilene. “That doesn’t seem like it’s enough.”
“The CLETS system, the electronic database, really does work. Very well, in fact.”
“But what if he’s not in California anymore? Does this electronic system work if he’s found in another state? The last place he was, at least that I know of, was Colorado.”
Ilene Mara paused, looked down at the ground. “No. No, it doesn’t.”
“Why isn’t it linked up with other states’ databases?”
“No other state has a method of identifying adult missing persons. There are no central repositories. In New York, for instance, if they can’t ID you in one county, and you’re missing in an adjacent county, your body sits in a morgue until you’re lucky enough to be identified.”
“My God, who set up such an inept system?”
“It’s not as easy to link things as you might think. California went to some extraordinary lengths and expense in setting up CLETS. But if you consider that there are one hundred and seventy thousand missing person reports each year in California alone, you can see why.”
Lauren fell silent, the magnitude of what she was up against suddenly hitting her. Just then, Ilene’s phone rang.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
While Ilene spoke, Lauren again looked at the photos pinned to the walls of the cubicle. She knew that for each one of the pictures, for each one of the smiling faces, there was a story. Some horrible story as to why that person was missing. Some horrible nightmare as to why he or she was never going to return home again.
“Lauren?” Ilene had hung up the phone and was facing her again.
“Huh? Yeah, I’m sorry, I was just… thinking.”
“I realize this is hard on you. But you have to think about your husband, make sure you’ve told the police everything. I have an obligation to tell you that a majority of the time when a husband takes off, it’s of his own free will.”
Lauren looked away. “So I’ve been told.”
Ilene leaned forward, placed a hand atop Lauren’s. “It’s also possible, since we’re discussing all the possibilities, that he was arrested for something in another state, and he’s too embarrassed to call home.”
“Arrested for what?”
“We’ve had a number of men who get involved with a prostitute and are arrested in the sweep—”
“My husband, with a prostitute?” Lauren laughed. “If you knew Michael, you’d realize how funny that is.”
Ilene’s phone rang again, and she apologized, then snatched it up. She placed the caller on hold and turned back to face Lauren. “I’ve got to take this. But I want you to know you can call me at any time if you’ve thought of any new information.”
Lauren nodded, then stood up. “Thanks.”
“One last thing. Though the natural reaction is denial, it’s important for you to at least acknowledge that there could be foul play involved here. Your husband could’ve had some kind of argument or problem with someone you don’t even know about.”
As Ilene said this, Lauren thought about the person who had been in her house.
“Point is, your safety could also become an issue.”
Ilene paused for a moment, then placed a hand on Lauren’s left forearm. “Are you okay?”
Lauren, who had been staring off into the distance, focused her gaze on Ilene. “Everything’s fine. I’m just a little overwhelmed by all this.”
“Perfectly understandable.” A back-ring sounded, reminding Ilene someone was on hold. “Until we can be sure of the reason for Michael’s disappearance, I’d recommend you take all reasonable safety precautions. Lock your doors and don’t go out alone at night, unless absolutely necessary.”
Lauren’s eyes landed on the photos in the cubicle. “Michael’s going to end up like one of the people in those pictures, isn’t he?”
“I certainly hope so. Those are the ones we’ve found.”
Lauren managed a half smile. It felt good to have hope. “Thanks for your help.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Ilene turned to pick up the phone and paused. “Please be careful, Lauren.”
15
Hector DeSantos nodded to the military guard at the front entrance and presented his identification card for scrutiny. The man waved him on and he proceeded through the metal detector, placing his Pierre Cardin attaché case on the X-ray scanner and retrieving it as it exited the machine. After crossing the lobby, DeSantos removed a key card and held it in front of the electronic reader next to the elevator, then entered a code on the adjacent touch pad. The red light flashed green, and the doors slid open.
Inside, he pressed the basement button. There was a slight pause while the computer compared his fingerprint to the digital signatures of all authorized personnel. Suddenly, the doors closed and the car began descending.
After exiting the elevator, DeSantos nodded to the guard who was standing at the entrance to the floor. The stiff, uniformed man returned the acknowledgment with a slight dip of his chin, and DeSantos continued on. The click of his highly polished Allen Edmonds wingtips against the tile flooring echoed as he made his way down the long corridor. The Navajo white walls were barren, save for charts delineating emergency exits and placards on doors with people’s names and ranks.
DeSantos stopped at a room at the far end of the hall and placed the palm of his hand on the glass panel beside the door. An electronic beep sounded, followed by the appearance of a yellow light beneath his fingertips. It moved slowly down to his palm, then faded from view. A computer-generated female voice said, “Please wait while the database is scanned.”
DeSantos, a member of the highly covert Operations Support Intelligence Group, stood at the door awaiting admittance, his right foot tapping repeatedly. OPSIG, buried in the bowels of the Pentagon, was Douglas Knox’s brainchild while he was the chief counsel for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Their unwritten mission statement empowered them to gather the necessary intelligence that would ensure the security and success of covert operations. As a result, the core group of twenty agents with Special Forces training, initially handpicked by Knox, were ready to leave for anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice, either on missions of their own or as support for other CIA operatives. Aside from rigorous refresher training programs that harkened back to their Special Forces roots, much of their time was spent analyzing national security threats in situation rooms such as the one DeSantos was about to enter.