The Lost Girl (A Mickey Keller Thriller Book 1) Page 9

  Cut it out, Amy. You’re writing your opening statement at your own trial. Enjoy the time with your daughter.

  Her twitching eye was driving her crazy.

  “Look Amy. Elephants!” Melissa started running down the path where the massive beasts roamed freely. It was an expansive exhibit, one that allowed the animals the ability to live as close to their natural habitat as possible while in captivity.

  Amy smiled. Lindy had loved the zoo, too—and she had been to the one in Boston more times than she could count.

  “Look at the way they curl their trunks around the dirt and mud and toss it onto their backs.”

  Melissa laughed. “Silly elephants. Why are they throwing dirt on themselves? Mommy would get very mad at me if I did that.”

  “If you want to throw dirt on yourself, that’s okay with me.”

  Melissa looked at her as if that were a revelation.

  When she and Dan took Lindy to the beach and Lindy tossed sand all over herself, they let her do it because she was having so much fun. They had to shower to get the sand out of Dan’s beard and Lindy’s blonde locks, but it was worth it because of the joy Lindy had.

  “Look at him now,” Amy said. “He’s playing with that big ball.”

  She jumped in place. “Can I pet him?”

  Amy chuckled. “I have a better idea. You like to feed the ducks and geese. Should we go see what time they’re going to feed the elephants?”

  “Yes!”

  She took Melissa’s tiny hand in hers and they walked back down the path. Amy scraped a fingernail against the right side of her neck. It hurt—and served as some kind of proof that she was not dreaming.

  19

  Mickey Keller was a wiry man skilled in a variety of martial arts, including krav maga. Although not physically imposing, he was the model of health: he worked out regularly, snacked on nuts, fruits, and vegetables, eschewed red meat, and preferred fish. He never smoked and drank moderately—primarily red wine—although craft beers were catching his interest.

  A mutt of Polish, Greek, Serbian Jewish, and Venetian Italian heritage, he felt like a man without a past—it was too much diversity to embrace any single one. He considered himself an assimilated American and tried—often unsuccessfully—to convince himself that was enough.

  Keller stepped off the Gulfstream V and jogged along the tarmac to the black Lincoln that was waiting for him. He punched the keyless entry code into the window pillar and slid into the sedan. A moment later, he was on the road. Twenty minutes after that, he arrived at a nondescript bar off Embarcadero West and bypassed the elevator, taking the stairs—just as his grandmother had done for nearly all of her 104 years—to an abandoned artist’s loft.

  He found Angelo Lira standing at the large picture window that had a decent, though obstructed, view of downtown Oakland, and sidestepped small talk. Lira gave him his mission briefing, highlights of which were simultaneously delivered to his iPhone in an encrypted Word document.

  “Bottom line,” Lira said, “your number one priority is to retrieve the girl.”

  “And this Amy woman?”

  “She’s the one who kidnapped the kid in the first place. She’d be stupid to go to the cops. Get the girl and get out of there.”

  “Okay,” Keller said. “Got it.”

  “No complications, Mickey. I want this done quick—and clean. Under the radar.”

  “Cops on the case? Who’s the dick?”

  “Haven’t been called.”

  Keller tilted his chin back in understanding. “Okay.”

  Lira worked his jaw. “We’re on the verge of an IPO with the parents. The girl’s the face of the company. If word gets out that she’s been kidnapped, and they give the media her photo—she’ll forever be associated with a kidnapping, not a revolutionary change in health care and genetics testing. At best, it’ll divert investor attention away from the IPO and toward the search for the girl, endless stories about the woman who took her, the police investigation—everything but what we want. A kid in danger gets people’s hearts racing. At worst, the father will be questioned, if not suspected of conspiring with his hot young au pair. Too much at stake.”

  Keller nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “No cops, no media. No one knows. Except you, the nanny who let it happen, the parents, and me.”

  “Where can I find this nanny?”

  Lira gave him the Ellis address.

  “This is an important case. Important to me. Personally.”

  “Bill said there’s a lot riding on it.”

  “That’s an understatement. Don’t fuck it up.”

  20

  Fifteen minutes later Keller was knocking on Giselle’s bedroom door. He held up a brass badge then dropped it back in his sport coat pocket. It was an authentic replica made by a European foundry that specialized in creating collector’s editions of those brandished by many US law enforcement agencies. The workmanship was extraordinary, with very little difference between the real detective’s shield he had earned with the LAPD and the inauthentic one he now carried.

  Keller asked her a few generic questions, then said, “What else can you tell me about Amy? Anything. No detail is insignificant.”

  Giselle’s gaze roamed the carpet before she lifted her head. “She is—she’s a runner. She runs with a woman who looks like her. Maybe her sister. How do you say? A brunette. And Amy works at a bakery near the lake. I was there. It’s uh, Grand Lake Bakery.” She gave him the cross street and described the place. “There is a guy there. He works with her. Um, Bobby or Billy. He’s older, maybe fifty?”

  “This Amy. Is she married?”

  “No. And no kids.”

  Keller nodded, knowing there had to be a reason why a woman would kidnap a young girl. It was unusual. There had to be a trigger of some sort. “You get any indications—before she kidnapped Melissa—that something was off about her?”

  “Off?”

  “Like something wasn’t right.”

  “No, she seemed normal. Very friendly.”

  “Did she act strange around Melissa? Say things that were maybe a little odd?”

  Giselle shook her head. “She seemed completely at ease around her. Like…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Like what?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Now that I think about it, maybe she was too much at ease around her, like she was a natural. She knew how to relate to Melissa.” Giselle shook her head. “Maybe she has a young niece or a cousin.”

  Keller absorbed that. These were certainly possibilities.

  “There is one thing.” She bit her lip but did not continue.

  “Go on.”

  “I, um…I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

  Keller leaned forward and placed both forearms on his knees. “Giselle, a young girl’s life could depend on what you do or don’t tell me. We need to find her before she’s harmed.”

  “You really think Amy would harm her?”

  “No idea. Do you?”

  “I—” She sighed. “She may have taken her because she wanted to protect Melissa.”

  Keller sat back abruptly. “Protect her. From who?”

  Giselle’s lips quivered, then tightened. “I do not know for sure.”

  “But you have suspicions.”

  “If I lose my job they will send me back to Germany. And my—I am much happier here. I do not want to go home.”

  “I’ll keep what you tell me between us.”

  “Promise?” She looked deep into his eyes.

  Keller froze. Her face oozed natural beauty. And innocence.

  His attraction to women was not just sexual: he loved spending time with them, chatting with them. That presented a problem, as he tended to talk too much—and that sometimes included mission details. If su
ch behavior occurred with an off-duty law enforcement officer, it would’ve been disastrous. When he went to work for Bill Tait, Tait told him that if his cadre of employees could discover this weakness in their vetting, others could, too. Under the threat of losing his lucrative career, Keller agreed to work with a counselor.

  “Yes,” Keller said, clearing his throat, “I promise.”

  Giselle leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I have seen bruises on Melissa’s body. Her arms, her neck. And red lines on her back.”

  “She’s been abused?”

  “I think so. How else does a little girl get bruises like that?”

  “Did you ask Melissa what happened?”

  “She won’t talk about it.”

  “Who do you think is hurting her?”

  Giselle bit her lip.

  “C’mon, Giselle. This is important.”

  She put her chin down and whispered, “Christine.”

  Keller tilted his head back. “Really,” he said under his breath. “Christine Ellis? The mom?”

  Giselle nodded silently.

  “Did you ever see anything that—”

  “No. Nothing. It is just a guess. I have no proof of anything. I never heard anything. Never saw anything.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Keller said. “So you spend a lot of time at the lake. You happen to see any surveillance cameras in the area?”

  “I do not know. There could be. I—I do not really notice those things.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?” Keller asked.

  “I, I don’t think so.”

  He gave her his card. All it had on it was a phone number and above it the words, “Call with information.”

  Giselle inspected it. “Sorry. I did not get your name.”

  He chuckled inwardly. That’s because I didn’t give it to you. “Carr.” He pointed at the card. “You think of something, call me. Immediately.”

  IT WAS DUSK AND KELLER needed to get to the bakery before it closed. When he walked in, he did a quick survey of the place and took mental notes.

  “Can I help you?”

  His attention, and gaze, were drawn to a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length hair.

  “Looking for Bobby. Or Billy.”

  “Bobby. He’s in the back. He’s one of our bakers.”

  Keller removed his badge and held it up, his fingers conveniently obscuring key information on its face…the product of practice and long, slender digits.

  “I need to ask him a few questions.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “One of his coworkers. Amy.”

  Her brow crunched. “I’m the owner. I can answer your questions.”

  The door swung open and two women walked in. Another employee stepped forward from a back room and greeted the customers.

  “Come back to my office. I’m Ellen Macafree,” she said as she swung open a half-door beside the cash register to allow Keller to pass.

  “Thanks. Sorry to drop in on you like this. I appreciate your time.” As they entered a modest-sized room that was filled with stacks of papers, Keller was quick to begin talking. “Do you have a personnel file on Amy?”

  “I do, but I don’t think I should give it to you without a warrant.”

  Keller pursed his lips and nodded, then took out a pad and pen to look official.

  “Is she okay? Did she do something wrong? Why are you here?”

  “Can’t discuss it,” Keller said. “Ongoing investigation.”

  “Something I should be concerned about?”

  “There’s a detective sitting in your office, Ms. Macafree. That should be your answer. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Today. She came in for work and left at lunch time. But she hasn’t returned. No phone call. Not answering her phone at all.”

  “That unusual?”

  “Very. Aside from occasional lateness, she’s been a responsible employee.”

  “What’s Amy’s last name?”

  Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know her last name?”

  “I was just handed this case. Literally thirty minutes ago.”

  “Robbins.”

  “Phone number?”

  Ellen jotted it down on a piece of paper and handed it over. “You can’t tell me anything about what the problem is?”

  “Sorry, I can’t. Have you noticed any behavior lately that, well, seemed out of the ordinary?”

  Ellen hesitated. “If anything, I’d say she seems happier.”

  Keller harrumphed. That could indicate that she identified a target she found appealing, was planning to abduct the girl, and was confident in her plan. Or it could indicate nothing of the sort. Pedophilia among women was rare.

  “Home address?”

  “That you could get from your department, I’m sure.”

  “Right you are. What about friends? Family?”

  “I’ve never seen her with friends. But she has a brother in town. I honestly don’t know a whole lot about her.”

  Keller sensed some evasion but decided not to ruffle feathers. He might have to return for more questions and if he pushed Macafree too hard and she called the station to complain, she would discover there was no case and no detective. It would cause a boatload of problems for him. He rose from his chair. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  He walked out before she could ask him any questions—like what his name was—and drove his Lincoln around the block before pulling out his phone and starting his search for an Amy Robbins in Oakland. There was nothing—no LinkedIn profile, no Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter accounts.

  But then he found an old article from the Boston Herald covering a tragic car accident. It was only a brief piece, a filler in local news. But it provided some important information.

  Keller took a screenshot, which included a grainy photo of the Robbins woman, and securely WhatsApped it to Lira with a message to show it to Ellis. Maybe he knew her.

  A few clicks and the picture was on its way. In the meantime, Keller continued to poke around to see if he could locate a current address for Amy Robbins.

  21

  Ellis and Lira were still at the office, navigating a difficult conference call with one of their banking analysts.

  Lira glanced down at his Pixel as the photo hit his inbox. He held it up to show Ellis and shrugged.

  Ellis took a moment to study the screen, and then his jaw dropped open. “Oh shit.”

  “Excuse me?” the analyst asked.

  “Uh…” Lira read Ellis’s reaction and inched forward in his seat. “Listen, Rhonda, we need to call you back in a few minutes.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great,” Lira said, knowing it was likely the opposite. “Brandon just got some news about his dog. I’ll get back to you within the hour.” He disconnected the call. “Who is this woman?”

  Ellis swallowed. “It’s a bad picture. I, uh…I can’t be sure.”

  “Bullshit. You’re sweating. Who is she?”

  Ellis stood up and ran his right hand through his hair. He turned away, toward the window, and looked out at the city of Oakland as darkness descended and pinpricks of streetlights began to appear.

  “Brandon. Talk to me.”

  “Where’d you get it? The photo?”

  “My guy. Don’t know where or how. This is the woman who took Melissa. Amy Robbins.” He studied Ellis’s face. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, all’s good. I’ll—I’m…I’ll handle it.”

  “Handle what?”

  Ellis cleared his throat.

  “Brandon, if there’s something you know about this, you need to tell me. Do you or do you not know who this woman is?”

  “I—I’m not sure. The photo—”
<
br />   “We’re talking about your daughter here,” Lira said.

  “I may know who this woman is.” He swallowed hard. Ellis bowed his head. “It looks like someone I know. Well, not someone I know. Someone I know about.”

  Lira waited a beat but Ellis was not forthcoming. He came up alongside Ellis and looked at his business partner’s face. “I really need you to start talking, Brandon. And fast. I can’t help you—and my colleague can’t help find your daughter—if you keep stuff from us.”

  “She looks a lot like the woman whose embryos we used for…” He cleared his throat. “For Melissa.”

  Lira canted his head. “I’m not clear on what you’re saying. Or not saying. So have a seat and take a breath and start from the beginning. I need to know what the hell’s going on.”

  Ellis bit his bottom lip. He pulled his hands from his pockets and sat down heavily on the sofa along the left wall of his office. “Shut the door.”

  Lira did as instructed and moved in front of Ellis but remained standing.

  “Melissa possesses an outstanding genetic profile.”

  “Of course she does. That’s what LifeScreen does. I don’t und—”

  “We didn’t use LifeScreen.”

  “Yes you did. We’ve been discussing this for years.”

  Ellis closed his eyes for a long moment, then started talking. “Melissa is not our biological child.” He swallowed deeply. “Christine and I used another couple’s embryos.”

  “So you lied to us—to get funding?” Lira’s cheeks flushed the color of a blood red orange. “That’s securities fraud.”

  “We’ll have to deal with that later. If anyone finds out.”

  “Why would you do this? Why not use LifeScreen?”

  “Because Christine and I had multiple failures with IVF. Couldn’t get pregnant. Turns out I have an absent vas deferens—I’m missing the tube that carries the sperm—so without that you can’t impregnate an egg. And Christine had some scarring. She was raped as a teen and the doctor who did the abortion was a hack. The malpractice settlement covered her medical schooling, but we knew conceiving might be a problem.” He cleared his throat. “This couple my colleague found for us were exceptional individuals. Bright, high achievers. Unusually clean genetic profile free of most diseases that we tested.”