Missing Daughter Page 5

  Hitch followed human smells, which could take form in skin rafts—near-invisible particles of skin that humans shed. Rafts could be determined by the soaps and perfumes used, the food eaten, all combining to form scents unique to individuals.

  If Maddison was afraid, she’d likely put out more rafts, Cook thought, growing hopeful as Hitch led her deeper into the woods, almost bisecting Lucifer’s Green, leading them toward DeBerry Street.

  He halted, his tail wagging fast.

  “What is it, pal?” Cook said.

  Hitch’s ears perked up as he circled an area, snorted then barked at his partner as if to say, “Here!”

  Cook’s brow furrowed. The area in question was a clouded puddle of dark water about five feet long and three feet wide.

  Hitch barked again.

  “Okay, okay. Give me a sec.”

  Cook tugged on latex gloves and reached around in the dark pooled water, which was nearly a foot deep. Feeling nothing, she noticed that it was next to a heap of branches and underbrush. There was nothing there, she thought.

  Hitch punctuated his panting with another bark.

  As Cook continued probing the puddle, she wondered if the mound of deadfall was natural or had been piled that way—by an animal maybe, as if to bury something.

  That’s when her fingers grazed something in the water.

  8

  Syracuse police detective Stan Zubik sat in the booth of Big Ivan’s Diner looking at a picture on his phone, lost in a pair of beautiful eyes. Lucy had lived with him for fifteen years until she passed away last summer.

  “You all right there, Stan?” Detective Fran Asher asked.

  “I’m fine, why?”

  “Why? Look at you. We’ve been partnered, what, more than two years now, pushing three, and I gotta say something.”

  Zubik put his phone down.

  “It’s been three years since Thelma left you to marry that car salesman from Ithaca and about a year since Lucy—” Asher indicated Zubik’s phone “—your golden retriever died. My heart aches for you, but Stan, you’ve become a country song.”

  Zubik, the descendant of Polish professors, was a severe, intimidating cop, with icy, penetrating eyes that had stared down lying killers, rapists, drug dealers, pedophiles and psychopaths. Now they narrowed at Asher and he said, “Your point?”

  “You need to get out there. You’re five years from hanging up your shield. You need someone in your life. Did you try those online matchmaker sites I showed you? And that community center I told you about with the singles bowling league? Don’t wince like that, Stan. I’m saying this because I care.”

  “I’m content, leave it at that.” Zubik indicated Asher’s laptop and reached for his coffee. “Did you finish reading the new information on the Mitchell case? If so, we should go.”

  “Give me a minute.” Asher’s attention shifted to her computer.

  Zubik and Asher worked in the Criminal Investigations Division, assigned to cold cases. Zubik held one of the department’s highest clearance rates, and Asher, who grew up on a farm before getting a degree at Syracuse University, had earned a near-record high on the detective’s exam. The fact she was gay and lived with another woman was of no concern to Zubik. He always shut down anyone he caught making idiotic comments. Zubik respected Asher because she had one of the best analytical minds of any investigator he knew, and he liked her, cared about her, because she had a good heart.

  In working their cases, the two detectives often met Saturday mornings at Big Ivan’s, Zubik’s preferred greasy spoon, to review notes before conducting interviews. Weekends worked well for them to locate witnesses.

  The Mitchell case concerned the unsolved murder of Jeremy Mitchell, a clerk shot to death in a jewelry store robbery twenty years ago. Some of the unique rings stolen at the time had recently surfaced at a flea market, giving them a new lead.

  “See,” Zubik said, “photo five shows these markings and—”

  His phone rang.

  “Zubik.”

  “It’s Tilden. We’ve got a missing twelve-year-old girl, possibly abducted from her bedroom by an intruder last night at her home on the west side.”

  “Who’s the primary on it?”

  “You are, with Asher. Could be a runaway, could be something bigger. We need this done right from the get-go, Stan. Responding officers, Greer and Porter, have already got K-9 searching and sealed the house to preserve the scene.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll alert Missing Persons and Crime Scene. Onondaga’s already supporting.”

  “Does the girl have a phone? Can we track anything?”

  “No phone located yet, but we’re getting the Computer Forensic Unit to get on the family’s service carrier. As we get rolling, I’ll call state police, FBI and pull in anyone else we need.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just sent you details. By the way, it looks like the girl is Cole Lane’s niece, so expect him to want to play a role.”

  “That so?” Zubik fished out a fresh notebook from his portfolio case and started a log with time and date.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you, Stan, but I’ll say it anyway. Keep things tight. We don’t know where this will go. Don’t share key fact evidence, and protect the investigation at all times.”

  In that instant Zubik’s mind raced back over his cases, heartbreaking, soul-destroying cases involving children, dead children, and how he had vowed on their graves that he would see that justice was done. They were his hardest cases, where parents, upstanding people, had reported children missing but were later proven to have lied to cover up abuse, an accidental death or a homicide. He had looked into the eyes of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles and friends as they lied, watched their tears, even believed that they were convinced in the truth of their own lies until the facts, the evidence, emerged and the incontrovertible truth was revealed.

  “I know the drill, Captain.”

  “You have the details so haul it over there now. Every minute counts.”

  Twenty minutes later, as Asher wheeled their unmarked sedan onto the Lane family’s street, Zubik’s phone rang and he answered.

  “Detective, Officer Greer. The K-9 unit’s found something in the woods that you should see. Once you arrive, I’ll meet you, let you evaluate things, debrief you, then guide you in.”

  9

  The number of Syracuse police, Onondaga County cars and other vehicles lining the street outside the Lane home was growing.

  Cole Lane and his family had to go three doors down, passing two TV news vans and a car from a radio station, before they could park. They hurried to the house and searched the groups clustered there.

  Jill saw Karen, went to her and they hugged for a long moment.

  “Oh Jill, I don’t know where Maddie is,” Karen said. “She was in her bed last night and now she’s gone! This can’t be real.”

  “We’re here and we’re going to help.” Jill gave an encouraging smile.

  Jill brushed back a strand of Karen’s hair that had curtained over her face, an intimate, warm gesture that surprised Karen a little, for she had always thought that there was a thin, invisible wall between them. Jill was a physical therapist, so pretty, so shapely, confident and poised. At any other time, Karen would be self-conscious of Jill seeing her in her ShopToSave City smock, which she hadn’t been able to change out of yet, but not today. Today, Karen’s world was tumbling out of control, and she took comfort in having her sister-in-law near.

  “Karen, listen to me. We’re family, and we’ll get through this together. We’re here, and we’re going to find Maddie, okay?”

  Karen nodded and thanked Jill, secretly wishing she could be in control, like her.

  * * *

  Nearby, Dalton and Tyler exchanged a bro hug. They were cool with
each other as they studied their phones, sharing what they were finding online, pausing to check messages.

  “This is freaking us all out,” Tyler said.

  “It sucks,” his cousin said.

  Dalton was a bit taller, a year older and way more cool, like he knew more about life. Dalton was always giving him expensive gifts—like knives for his collection—at Christmas and birthdays because he could afford that sort of stuff.

  “When we were driving here, my dad said somebody used a ladder and took Maddie from her bedroom,” Dalton said. “Is that for sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty scary,” Tyler said. “Check this out. Some kids at school put up a Find Maddie page.”

  “On the drive over I heard my dad on the phone trying to arrange with police and people for a reward to help find her.”

  “That’s good,” Tyler said. “We gotta do everything to find her.”

  “My dad’s going to help,” Dalton said.

  “You know what some of the kids from school are saying?”

  “What?”

  “That guys that just got out of prison, including pervs, live in a place on the other side of the Green. That makes me nervous, you know.”

  “Yeah, what do the cops say?” Dalton asked.

  “They asked me stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Well, I heard Maddie talking to someone in her room last night.”

  “Seriously? Who?”

  Tyler shook his head. “Don’t know. They were whispering.”

  “So you didn’t recognize them?”

  “No.”

  Dalton looked at the woods, waiting as the helicopter passed overhead then said, “Do you think it could be one of the convict guys?”

  “I don’t know, but the police have got a dog sniffing around in the woods. They think Maddie went that way.”

  * * *

  A few feet from the boys, Cole clasped his brother’s shoulders, and Ryan, on the brink of tears, took a firm grasp of his brother’s forearm.

  In that moment, Ryan’s anxiety over his business, along with any residual resentment he’d held for Cole, evaporated in the monstrous event that had befallen him.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “We’ll find her and bring her home, Ryan. Whatever it takes, I promise.”

  “This is my fault. I should’ve put up a security system and a new fence with that forest and that new halfway house across the way on DeBerry. I got a bad feeling about that place.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.” Cole searched his eyes to ensure he had his attention. “Tell me what you know so far.”

  As Ryan recounted everything that had happened, the police helicopter thumped overhead and he nodded toward Lucifer’s Green, then he indicated Chuck Field and his guys from his business, Karen’s coworkers, friends, neighbors and people from the community groups. The private investigators who worked for Cole had arrived and were taking notes and talking with the community officials, getting up to speed.

  After Cole took it all in, he took charge of the family and neighborhood-volunteer effort to find Maddie.

  “Ryan, I’m arranging to put up a page with a reward that leads to her safe return. So far we can put up ten thousand dollars. We’ll solicit donations and we’ll get them, don’t worry.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, we have to move fast and it might lead nutcases and fraudsters to us, but we can’t hold back, okay?”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “With the neighborhood association’s help, we’ll set up a search center immediately at the community hall, on Lime Tree Street. You can see it, three blocks that way.” Cole pointed. “Direct everyone there. We’ll coordinate everything at the hall.”

  As people moved toward the base of operations, the lights of TV news cameras fell on Ryan.

  “Excuse us, Ryan. Harry Hanlon, Channel 52.” A tall man with neatly combed hair and white teeth held a microphone near him. “Could you tell us what’s happened and your thoughts concerning your daughter’s disappearance?”

  Ryan saw a second TV news camera; then a woman with an expensive-looking digital camera aimed at him. Three or four other people thrust their phones in his direction as they tightened around him.

  “We’re doing all we can to find our daughter, Maddison,” Ryan said.

  “We understand that someone took her from her bedroom, used a ladder to climb to the window, is that correct?” asked one serious-faced newswoman, her sunglasses perched on her head.

  “It appears that’s what happened.”

  “Any idea who could’ve done this, Mr. Lane?” someone else asked.

  “No.”

  “Any ransom calls?”

  “No.”

  “Any contact from anyone, a text, a call?”

  “No.”

  “Has your daughter ever run away before?”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible she met someone online and arranged to meet them?”

  “We don’t know.” Ryan shook his head. “We’ve told police everything we know.”

  “Thanks, guys.” Cole stepped in. “We may have more to say later.”

  “You’re Cole Lane, the Purple Heart guy who wrote that book.”

  Hanlon and a few of the other reporters gave Cole a subtle, quick head-to-toe look as if they couldn’t believe he was standing before them on prosthetic legs. Cole was used to that look.

  “Yes, I’m Ryan’s brother and that’s all we can say for now.”

  “Wait,” Ryan said. “I just want to say if anyone out there knows anything, anything at all, please call us or call police, please. And Maddie, if you see this, just call us and I’ll come get you, please, honey!”

  Knowing Ryan’s last comment would play well, the news people moved on, seeking other people to interview while Cole took Ryan to join Karen and the rest of the family.

  * * *

  While the Lanes comforted each other, Grant Leeder, one of Cole’s most experienced investigators, pulled Cole aside.

  “We better look at the sex offender registry, cross-reference names and addresses and create a map listing offenders residing in the area.”

  Cole nodded. “Get on it. We’ll subcontract for help. I’ll cover the costs.”

  “Then there’s that halfway house on DeBerry.”

  “Yeah, that’s a concern,” Cole said.

  “I know some people in Corrections. We’ll shoot for a list of names.”

  “Good. Have Vince help there. He’s good on ex-cons,” Cole said. “The key is her phone. You know anybody in the department who might help?”

  “I do, but we shouldn’t push SPD too hard on that aspect. It could be seen as interfering.”

  “I get that, but we can sure as hell nudge them,” Cole said. “We need everyone to push their sources and contacts on the street and online with her picture. We need everybody working every angle.”

  “Got it,” Leeder said.

  “And,” Cole added, “can you call that web team and tell them to get the site up with the contact info and reward offer as soon as possible?”

  Cole’s attention shifted to the Onondaga County helicopter. It had been hovering over one area of Lucifer’s Green for a long time. The transmissions bouncing between the portable police radios had increased with an underlying tone of urgency.

  “Are you guys seeing this?” Ryan asked Cole and Leeder.

  “Yeah,” Cole said. “Something’s up.”

  Then a transmission came through on the radio of an officer nearby, loud enough for them to hear clearly. “What’s the ETA on Crime Scene? We need them in here.”

  A barking dog and the sounds of a commotion could be heard in the background of the radio call. The officer near Cole and Ryan moved quickly to silence hi
s radio and insert his earpiece. Other cops nearby did the same, indicating the message should not have been heard beyond police at the scene.

  “What is it? What did they find? Let me go in there.” Ryan started to lift the tape to head toward the woods, but two officers blocked him.

  “Sir, don’t.”

  “Did they find my daughter?”

  “Please wait here, sir.”

  Ryan, Cole and the others concentrated on the space between the garage and the house, which gave them a line of sight to the forest. After several long moments, they saw a man and a woman in plain clothes, and two detectives wearing latex gloves walking out of the woods toward the house.

  As the two investigators neared, the man looked toward them. Ryan locked on to his eyes, and with each step the detective took, Ryan struggled to read if the answer to his worst fear was written in the investigator’s movements.

  10

  Stan Zubik and Fran Asher walked out of the woods, ducked under the tape and went to the officers who were blocking Ryan.

  After one of them introduced Ryan as Maddison Lane’s father, Zubik pulled off his latex gloves and shook his hand firmly. Asher did the same.

  “Mr. Lane, I’m Detective Stan Zubik. This is Detective Fran Asher, my partner. We’re leading on your daughter’s case, and we’d like to talk with you and your wife.”

  Ryan’s breathing had quickened and his face was taut—he was pissed.

  “What did you find out there?”

  “Mr. Lane,” Zubik said, “let’s get your wife and go over by that patrol car where we can talk privately.”

  “Tell me now! Tell me what the dog found!” Ryan cast his hand in the direction of the groups of concerned friends and neighbors. “We’ve got fifty people ready to search the woods, but they won’t let us in. Why?”

  At that moment, Zubik and everyone else saw three members of the crime scene team emerge from a truck, suited head to toe in white coveralls and carrying equipment into the forest, following the path the detectives had used. Zubik then saw fear rising in Ryan.