Daughter Lost and Found

 A young woman’s disappearance and mysterious return without a memory lead Tom Jurgen and Rachel on a strange case of kidnapping and twisted love.

Daughter Lost and Found, Part One

 

“My daughter Adria disappeared two months ago,” Maureen Alcott told me. “Then she came home, and she doesn’t remember anything that happened. Adria, this is Tom Jurgen. The private detective I told you about.”

            Adria, 23, was shy and nervous. “H-hello. I’m Adria.” She sat at the other side of the kitchen table. Skinny, with short blond hair, she wore a pale yellow dress and a silver bracelet on her left wrist.

            Maureen sat between us. In her early fifties, her face was thin and tense, with dark brown eyes and a thick nose. Her arms were crossed on the table. She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something.

            “Nice to meet you.” I took a sip of coffee from the cup in front of me. “Can you tell me what happened?”

            Adria looked at her mother. Maureen shook her head. “She doesn’t remember. Like I said.”

            Okay. “What do you remember before it happened?”

            Again she looked at her mother. Again Maureen answered: “Nothing. She just—”

            “Adria? Can you tell me?” I wanted to hear her speak more than a few words.

            She looked down at the table. Her voice was so low I had to lean forward. “I was—I think I was walking down a street. I didn’t know where I was. Then I was here.” She glanced at her mother. “She said my name was Adria, and she’s my mother.” 

            Adria bit her lip, as if fighting back tears. 

            “Where did you find her?” I looked at Maureen.

            “Outside. On the front porch.” We were in her house in Evanston. Adria’s father had died 11 years ago. Maureen was unmarried, although she’d mentioned a boyfriend. He wasn’t here.

            “What did the doctors say?”

            “She’s fine.” Maureen rolled her eyes in frustration. “No physical injuries, no head or brain trauma. They did CTs, MRIs, blood tests, spinal stuff, heart, liver—she’s perfectly healthy, she just can’t remember anything.” She glared at Adria, then softened her eyes. “It’s not your fault, honey . . .”

            Adria was crying silently. Maureen grabbed a napkin from the counter behind her and pushed it into her hand.

            “What did she have when you found her?” I asked when Adria had wiped her eyes.

            Maureen stood up. “Just a minute.”

            We were alone while Maureen went into the other room. “How do you feel?” I asked quietly.

            She gazed at me, as if trying to remember who I was. “Scared.”

            I nodded. “Do you remember what happened since you came home?”

            “I have—trouble. You’re Tom, right? I know Maureen—mom. I can remember where the grocery store is now. I recognize the doctors. One of the police who interviewed me was kind of cute—” She blushed, and Maureen came back before she could go on.

            She dropped a cardboard box on the kitchen table. “This is what she was wearing. Everything. Even her shoes.”  She crossed her arms. “It’s what she was wearing when she disappeared.”

            There wasn’t much. A Northwestern University sweatshirt, a gray T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and underwear. Everything, like her mother had said. The clothes were clean. The pockets were empty.

            “They tested everything,” Maureen said. “Looking for dust or dirt or DNA. They didn’t find anything. They might be brand-new.”

            I replaced the clothing in the box. Then I looked over at Adria. “What about that bracelet?”

            The bracelet was a simple silver band around her wrist with a black stone at the clasp. She pushed it up and down, twisting it. “I just found it in my room. I like it.”

            “Rick gave it to her. Rick Dunley.” Maureen frowned. “Adria’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.”

            “Were they involved when she disappeared?”

            “He broke up with her, four, five months ago? Do you remember—no, of course you don’t.” She shook her head. “They stayed friends. The police talked to him. When she disappeared.”

            I looked down at the box, then over to Adria. Then to her mother. “I’m not sure how much I can do. But I’ll try. Can I take the box? And can you give me Rick Dunley’s number?””

            She wrote the phone number and address down, along the names of friends she remembered. She also wrote me a check. I put both in my wallet and hefted the box. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks.” I smiled at Adria. “Glad you’re okay.”

            She seemed surprised. “Th-thanks.”

            Adria went back up to her room. Maureen took me to the door and held it open for me.

            “She’s adopted,” she said as we walked to my Prius. “She knows. I never got married, but I wanted to raise a child, and—well, anyway, she’s my daughter. I need to know what happened to her.”

            I nodded. “I understand.”

            She looked away from me suddenly, her eyes glistening with tears. “Th-thank you.”

I put the box in the trunk of my Prius and climbed in behind the wheel, thinking.

            Mostly I wished Rachel was here.

 

Rachel, my girlfriend, was studying for a psychology degree. Right now she was in class: “Freud, Dreams, and The Matrix: The Limits of the Unconscious.” I couldn’t call her like I usually do to let her know what I was up to—just in case I get ambushed by a serial killer or a vengeful ghost—so I sent her a quick text.

            In addition to having red hair and hazelnut eyes and being hot in general, Rachel has psychic powers. They could have come in handy talking to Adria Alcott. But I couldn’t ask her to skip class for one of my cases, and she would have jabbed an elbow into my stomach if I tried.             

            It was more than just not having her help on cases. Most of them don’t involve the supernatural anyway—just cheating spouses, employee background checks, embezzlement, and the like. But even though she’d cut back on her graphic design work, school was taking up more and more of her time—classes, studying, projects, papers. I’d encouraged her to enroll, wanting to be a supportive boyfriend, but we didn’t have as much time for each other lately. I’m insecure enough to worry that she might meet someone she liked more, or that she’d just grow tired of me as she explored life more than she’d done in years.

            I tried to remind myself that she still said she loved me, sometimes. I couldn’t control her life—and I’d end up in pain if I tried. Mostly I reminded myself that I had my own job, and we needed my income to pay the cable bill more than ever.

            I called the number Maureen had given me for Rick Dunley. He was a lawyer at a firm in town, and he agreed to talk to me, without any enthusiasm about it. “I don’t really know anything about what happened to her,” he told me on the phone. “And I said that two months ago.”

            In his office in downtown Evanston, Dunley sat behind a small desk in front of a window that looked down on the main street. He wore a loose necktie, his jacket hanging over the back of his chair, and he had slim shoulders and close cut hair. 

The firm handled patent law with two other partners and a secretary, and even though he was barely 30, Dunley seemed to be doing well. 

            “Like I told you, I can’t really help you. Or Adria. I’m sorry, but . . .” He shrugged.

            “I understand. Your name just came up when I was talking to Adria and her mother, and I thought I’d start with you, since you’re close.”

            “Came up how?” He frowned, on guard.

“Adria was wearing a silver bracelet you gave her. Do you remember it?”

“How is that important?”

“Maybe it’s not. She says she doesn’t remember you.”

Dunley nodded. “Yeah, I bought that for her. We were dating. We dated for close to a year, and then we just—It wasn’t a big fight or anything, we just decided it wasn’t really going anywhere. We stayed friendly.”

“Do you remember giving her the bracelet?”

His frown and annoyance grew deeper. “Yeah, and it’s none of your business, all right? We—” He stopped, took a deep breath, and relaxed. “Okay. I gave that to her after the first time we slept together. That’s all I’m going to tell you about it. Okay?”

“Fine.” I wasn’t expecting much from Dunley anyway. “I know you’ve been through this before, but can you think of any reason why Adria would have disappeared? Do you think she ran away, or got kidnapped or—”

“Abducted by aliens?” He laughed. “Believe me, I thought about it. The cops questioned me three times. Adria’s mother didn’t like me. I don’t know, man. Adria was always—well, shy. Introverted. She was still living with her mother, you know? Working at a coffee shop. I liked her, don’t get me wrong. It just—didn’t seem like it was going to work out. She knew it too.”

I nodded. I could delve deeper into Dunley’s personal life later if I had to. “Do you remember anyone who, uh, didn’t like her? Or maybe liked her too much?”

He looked down at his keyboard, thinking. “There was this one guy working there who was always a little too friendly, just this side of sexual harassment. I think his name was Anderson. Or maybe Henderson. And her manager was a bitch. She was a little paranoid about her neighbor next door, but that was nothing.” He shook his head. “I told the cops all of this when she disappeared. I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you now.” He pushed his chair back.

I could take the hint. I stood up before he did. “Here’s my card—” I dropped it next to his keyboard.” If you think anything else, please let me know—phone call, text, email, whatever. Thanks for your time.”

“Sure thing.” His head was down, already back to work.

“Oh, by the way—”

“Yeah?” His head jerked up, suspicious, as if I was pulling a Lieutenant Columbo thing on him.

“Where’s the coffee shop where she worked?”

 

The manager of the coffee shop, a tall woman named Teri, didn’t have much time for me. I could see how Adria might have disliked her—she shouted curt orders to her staff and barely smiled at her customers. 

            “She just didn’t show up one day.” Teri watched two baristas behind the counter with her arms crossed as she talked to me. “I called her at home, her mother said she wasn’t there. We were swamped. The next day I hired a new girl. Patricia! Refill the cream!” She shook her head, frustrated.

            “There was a co-worker named Anderson. Or Henderson? He used to bother the staff, I’m told.”

            “He quit. Haven’t seen him in months. Dash, that’s a cappuccino, not a latté!”

            I bought a coffee and found a seat, waiting for the rush to fade out. Teri watched her staff like a cat waiting to snatch a mosquito, but eventually she disappeared into the back for a break, or a cigarette.           

Dash, a young white guy with a mustache and a tattoo of a hammer on his arm, came by with a tray and a rag for clearing cups and wiping down tables. I asked him about Adria, but she’d been gone when he got hired. As he headed to another table, the door opened, “Hi, Mr. Haldane! Mrs. Haldane!”

            “Hi, Dash,” said Mr. Haldane, holding the hand of a woman in her 30s in sunglasses and a floppy hat. She was blonde, slender, and unsteady on her feet. Haldane was closer to my age—late 40s—but in much better shape, darn him, wiry and athletic in slacks and wool sweater. At least he was balding.

            His wife sat down at a table in the corner, and Haldane went up to the counter to order their beverages. He chatted with the other barista, waiting for his order, but Ms. Haldane sat almost motionless, hands in her lap, staring nowhere behind her dark glasses.

            Teri emerged from the back and said hi to Haldane, and I decided it was time to go before she kicked me out. At least the coffee was good.

 

I spent a few more hours in Evanston tracking down Adria’s friends, none of whom had any information that helped me. Or her. So I went back home to work from my computer.

            Rachel was still in class. The office felt spooky without her working near me. I forced myself to start calling the people on Maureen Alcott’s list without looking over my shoulder at Rachel’s desk every two seconds. When I was finished with the names, I went onto the internet to look up news stories reporting on Adria’s disappearance. 

            The case had gotten decent coverage in the local media for about a week, then predictably faded away. Maureen was all over social media, though, posting photos of her daughter, offering a reward, and begging for help from anyone who might have seen Adria or knew anything. “Please help me find my daughter.” Have you seen my daughter?” “Please share any information you have about my daughter—REWARD!” 

            A few people responded. Someone had seen Adria in a brown Audi in Chicago. Someone else saw her at a truck stop in Texas. Another person pretended to be Adria. 

            One friend said he’d seen Adria in an Evanston park. Nothing seemed to come from that. An old boyfriend said online that she’d just gotten sick of living with her mother and ran away. That started a fight that got ugly, until the guy got blocked everywhere.

            Maureen had been tenacious, but she must have been exhausted by the time her daughter finally came back.

            I heard the door open. “Honey! I’m home!” Rachel stuck her face inside the office door. “What’s for dinner, sweetheart?”

            It was my night to cook. “Pasta salad. How was school? Play with anybody at recess?”

            “Those boys are so mean, they never share their baseball. And the teachers give too much homework.” She waved a hand. “Let me change.”

            She came back to the office ten minutes later. I don’t know what she’d changed from, but now she was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt from the college. “I’ve got two chapters to read and a test to study for, and I’ve still got to finish that stupid web page for that stupid client.” She paused for a quick kiss. “Anything new in the P.I. world, shamus?”

            “Actually, if you’ve got a minute—” I stood up and lifted the box of Adria’s clothes. “Could you take a look at this? See if you get anything?”

            Rachel sighed. “Sure. What am I looking for? Or don’t you want to tell me?”

            Sometimes it’s better if she has no idea what to search for, but this time I told her about Adria. “Anything about where she was, or where this came from, or who she was with, or anything like that.”

            She sat on the floor and went through the clothes one by one. She held up the panties. “I assume you examined this thoroughly?”

            “Not in front of her mother.” 

            She picked up the gray T-shirt. “No bra?” 

            “She’s kind of, uh, slender, I guess.” 

            “Cute?” She cocked an eye at me. Rachel can get jealous too.

            I shrugged. “Like a kid sister. Are you getting anything there?”

            “Nothing.” Rachel stood up. “It might as well be brand new.”

            “Maybe it is.” Whoever took Adria could have bought her new clothes before letting her go, if that’s what happened. “What’s your day like tomorrow? More classes?”

            “Just one in the morning. Why? Oh.” 

            “Yeah.” I picked up the box and carried it back to my desk. “I don’t even know if there’s anything supernatural about this. But if you could, you know—”

            “Do a Vulcan mind-meld on her? It doesn’t work like that.” She sank into her chair.

            “I know.” I sat down too. “It’ll just take a few minutes. I can pick you up from class. We can get something to eat, or—”

            “A chocolate milkshake at the malt shop with two straws? Will you carry my books?” She sighed. “Fine. I could use a break.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Now don’t bother me. I’ve got work to do.” She snatched her mouse and went to work.

Daughter Lost and Found, Part Two

At 11:30 the next morning I was waiting outside a classroom building in our Prius. I hadn’t gotten very far with the people I’d called from the list Maureen had given me. I’d talked to an Evanston cop I knew, who connected me with a detective who’d actually worked on the case, and learned nothing new in the three-minute chat he reluctantly granted me. I was hoping Rachel could find something in Adria’s mind that would give me some kind of lead. Otherwise I wasn’t sure what more I could do.

            Rachel came out of the building, talking to a guy and a woman with laptop cases slung over their shoulders. The woman headed up the sidewalk, and Rachel stood talking to the guy for another minute before patting his arm and turning toward the car, head down and holding her laptop case against her hip.

            “Who was that?” I asked as she buckled up.

            “Who? Oh, Marcia and Drake. They’re in my history of psychoanalysis class. We’re doing a project together.” She looked at me. “Oh. You’re jealous?”

            “Of course. He looked pretty buff.” He was also a lot closer to Rachel’s age than me. 

            She laughed. “I think he likes Marcia, and he’s trying to get her jealous by flirting with me.”

            Flirting didn’t make me feel better. “How was class?”

            “Fine.” She slipped on her sunglasses, leaned back, and closed her eyes. “Wake me when we’re there? I was up until 3:30.”

            Fine. I started the car.

            Up in Evanston, Maureen Alcott opened her door and looked Rachel over. “You’re a psychic?” She glanced at me, suspicious.

            “Kind of.” At least she’d left her hat and sunglasses in the car. She looked more like a typical grad student than a P.I.’s assistant.

            In the kitchen again, Maureen served us tea and then called for her daughter. Adria had gotten a job, she told us, at a local Walgreens. The manager liked her.

            Adria sat down across from me, with Rachel and her mother on either side of the small table. “Hi.” She was shy again. “You’re—Rachel? You read minds?”

            “Not exactly. Hi.” Rachel smiled. “Nice to meet you, Adria. Tom says you don’t remember much about what happened before you came home this last time.”

            “Nothing.” She sighed. “I keep trying, but it’s hard. Sometimes I have these dreams, but—”

            “What dreams?” I asked.

            Adria frowned. “It’s all dark, and then there’s this bright light in my eyes. And I can’t move. Something’s poking at me, hard. In my stomach, on my neck. Something goes down my throat and I can’t breathe. That’s when I usually wake up.” She shivered.

            Maureen stroked her arm. “It’s all right. You’re home. With me.”

            Adria nodded. “Yeah. Okay. What do we do?”

            “I don’t read minds, like I said.” Rachel looked her over. “What I do is pick things up—feelings, emotions, mostly. Sometimes memories. Can I hold your hand?”

            Adria set both her arms on the table, palms up. “Pick one.”

            Rachel smiled at her. “That’s a nice bracelet.”

She was still wearing the silver bracelet with the black stone. “A—a friend gave it to me.”

“It’s pretty,” Rachel said. Then she wrapped her fingers around Adsria’s right hand and closed her eyes. Adria looked at her mother. I watched Rachel.

            After a moment Rachel opened her eyes again, a puzzled look in them. She stared at Adria. “What’s your name?”

            “A-Adria. Adria Alcott.” Her voice was shaky. Nervous.

”Where are we?”

“Home. Evanston. The United States.”

“What do you remember before you came home?”

Adria blinked. “Nothing.”

“Your mother?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, mom.”

“It’s all right, baby.” Maureen’s voice was a whisper.

“The coffee shop? Teri?”

“Nope.” She was calm now. “It’s close to the Walgreens, but I haven’t gone in.”

“Your friends? Your boyfriend Rick?”

Suddenly she looked frightened. “Boyfriend? No. I don’t have a boyfriend.” She jerked her hand away.

“Are you okay?” Maureen leaned across the table.

“I’m fine.” Adria stood up, her chair skidding back. “I have to get ready for work.” She turned and hurried away from us.

“What was that?” Maureen looked from Rachel to me. 

Rachel folded her arms and sat back, looking like a psychologist already. “There wasn’t—I’m not sure how to put it. Like I said, usually I can pick up emotions, and emotions come from memories. Especially when you ask questions. But with Adria there was just—nothing. Everything was new. Like a blank book, with only the first few pages written on. Like—” She shook her head. “Well, I’ve never done it with a baby, but even that would probably have some basic memories, fear, pain, hunger. With Adria, it was like she was just born a few days ago.”

Maureen backed her chair up, her face pale. “You mean she’s—what? Some kind of—doppelganger?”

Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Maureen stood up and went to the stove. She started a kettle and reached into a cabinet for a cup. “I’m—going to have some tea.” Her voice was taut.

I stood up. “We’ll be going. I’ll call when I have anything more.”

“Is there anything more?” Maureen turned. “Have you found anything?”

I hesitated. Some cases just can’t be solved—missing persons stay missing, cheating spouses don’t get caught, witnesses can’t be found. Mysteries stay mysteries.

“I’ll give it another day,” I said. “If I don’t have anything to report, we can stop.” 

Maureen nodded. “All right.”

Adria came back to the kitchen in a white blouse and jeans. “I’m going to work, mom.”

“Can we give you a ride?” Rachel asked. “I think it’s on our way, if it’s the one we passed.”

“Yeah, great.” Adria smiled. She kissed Maureen on the cheek and followed us out.

Heading to our car, I noticed two neighbors from the house next door out in their driveway. It took me a moment to recognize them—”I saw them in the coffee shop you used to work at,” I told Adria. 

“That’s Mr. Haldane.” She kept her voice low, like she didn’t want him to hear her.

Haldane wore a light warmup jacket and jeans today; his wife was in a flowery dress. He waved; the wife ignored us. Haldane opened the passenger door on his maroon BMW, and suddenly the woman fell, collapsing onto the grass with a weak cry. 

Haldane ran to her. “Need a hand?” I called.

“Fine! We’re fine!” He waved me off, knelt down, and helped the woman to her feet, murmuring into her ear as he helped her stagger unsteadily back to the house. She almost fell again, but he caught her, and held her with one arm while unlocking the front door.

“Do you remember him from before?” Rachel asked Adria.

She shook her head. “Mom said he was real worried when I was gone.”

We dropped her off at the drugstore. “What do you think?” I asked.

Rachel groaned. “I don’t know. Like I said, it’s like there’s nothing in there that’s not more than a few weeks old. Even with animals I can usually get something. Hell, sometimes with plants, or old books, or a dagger that was used in a murder 10 years ago, but Adria?” She scratched her nose and shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Huh.” I started the car.

“She seems—nice. And her mother’s really worried.”

“You don’t need psychic powers to see that.” I started the car. “Where to? Home?”

“Yeah.” She put her sunglasses on. “I’ve got a ton of homework.”

 

The next morning Rachel was at class again and I was working on some background checks for a telecom company when Maureen Alcott called. 

            “It happened again.” She sounded out of breath.

            Oh hell. “Adria?”

            “No. Someone else. They disappeared.”

            A young woman named Caroline Tillens, a waitress at a local restaurant, hadn’t come home from work the night before last. Her parents had called all her friends, the restaurant, and everyone else they could think of before calling the police. 

            “They live just a few blocks away,” Maureen told me, struggling to keep her voice calm. “I told Adria to call in sick, but she went to work anyway. I feel sick. Is there some kind of psycho out there?”

            I tried to ease her worries, without much success. But I could understand her panic. Even without t Adria’s amnesia and Rachel’s psychic exam, a possible string of kidnappings would freak out anyone.

            I promised to look into it as best as I could. “The cops will probably do a better job,” I told her. “But I’ll see what I can find out.”

            “Th-thanks.” She stifled a sob.

            I called the Evanston cop I’d talked to about Adria. His name was Cunningham, and he was annoyed. “You know I can’t comment on an open investigation, Tom. All I can tell you is what we’re telling everyone else—we’re taking this very seriously and looking at all available information.”

            “C’mon, you know I’m not a reporter anymore.” I used to be, and I knew not to be intimidated by cops—until they started making threats. “I’ve got a frantic client whose own daughter disappeared just like this. Can you just tell me something that proves it’s not related?”

            His groan was close to a curse. “Look, a lot of these cases are just the same, all right? Someone just doesn’t come home after work, sometimes it’s that they’re going home with someone else, or running out, and sometimes it’s—you know. We could find her in a dumpster, or she’s just on a bender. The only thing I know is they both worked in food or beverage places—a restaurant, a coffee shop—but hell, that’s where people work. That, and they look kind of the same.”

            “The same how?”

            “Blonde, skinny, young? I mean, it’s not much, but sometimes these guys have a type. On the other hand, there’s a lot of blonde, skinny girls running around, so it could be nothing.”

            “Yeah.” My fingers went across my keyboard looking for an image of Caroline Tillens. No one would mistake her for Adria—she was taller, older, with a plumper face and curly hair—but she did fit her general look. “All right. I hope you find her.”

            “Me too. Her father’s already threatening a lawsuit.” Cunningham hung up.

            I got more coffee. I knew what I had to do next. I just didn’t want to. I told myself it wasn’t as bad as interviewing parents of murder victims—I did that too many times as a reporter—but it was the next worst thing.

            I found the Tillens’ phone number, gulped some coffee for courage, and called. I got an answering machine, but halfway through my message, someone picked up. “This is Ken Tillens. Who are you again?”

            I gave him my name. “I’ve been investigating the disappearance of Adria Alcott. I don’t know that there’s any connection between them, I’m just trying to be thorough. Does your daughter Caroline know Adria?”

            “No.” He sounded shaken. Angry. I couldn’t blame him. “We talked about it when she disappeared. They never met or anything.”

            “Adria was working at a coffee shop. Is it possible your daughter stopped in there and saw her?”

            “Caroline doesn’t go to coffee shops.” Tillens was impatient. “I’m sorry, I’ve just got too much to think about right now.”

“I understand.” I gave him my number. “I hope your daughter gets home soon.”     

He hung up. I hoped he’d actually written my number down.

I read up on the case online. The police were asking questions and searching Caroline’s neighborhood, and the family was begging for information and offering a reward, but there didn’t seem to be much more going on. Unfortunately, people disappear all the time, never to return. 

Unlike Adria Alcott.

Rachel came home at 3:00, dropped her backpack in the office, and scooted into the bedroom. She emerged in shorts and slippers and popped open a Coke. “Big test tomorrow. Don’t talk to me.”

I looked at her legs and sighed. “I’m trying to be supportive, but we are ever going to have sex again?”

“Hey, we had sex last, uh, Wednesday? Tuesday? What day is today?” She glanced at the calendar on the wall and groaned. “Damn it. Okay, I’ve got 15 minutes now, or I can pencil you in for the weekend.” She sank into her chair. “Sorry.”

“Never mind.” I stood up. “You study, Let’s order out for dinner, and—” My phone buzzed. Tillens’s number. “Oops. I better take this.”

“Tease.” Rachel swung around in her chair. “Thai food. Maybe after dinner—”

“Mr. Jurgen? It’s Callie Tillens. I’m Caroline’s mother. You talked to my husband today?”

“Yes, Ms. Tillens, thanks for calling me.” I turned to my desk. “Is there any news about your daughter?”

“Nothing. I haven’t slept for—I don’t know. My husband said you called? Something about Adria Alcott?”

I didn’t want to give her false hope. “I’m trying to see if there’s any connection between the two cases. They’re somewhat similar, but it doesn’t sound as if they knew each other, or ever met at all.”

“I remember reading about it. And one of the detectives today called us and asked about her, but there’s nothing I can think of.”

Cunningham, or one of his colleagues. Maybe he’d actually listened to me. 

We talked for 10 minutes or so, looking for anything the two young women had in common. They’d actually gone to the same high school, but Caroline was two years ahead of Adria. I went through the list of names Maureen Alcott had given me, and Callie Tillens suggested some of her own, but nothing clicked. 

“No, she likes everyone at the restaurant. Except this one cook who used to hit on her, and one other girl who’s kind of bitchy, but nothing serious. The manager does a good job taking care of people—”

“What about customers?” I was getting bored. And hungry. And I was thinking about Rachel.

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “There are some regulars. Ken and I eat there a lot, except Caroline doesn’t like it. She gets embarrassed. There’s a group of college kids who come in late, mostly boys, that she likes. They tip good, she says.” Callie sounded as if she didn’t believe the tips were all her daughter enjoyed. “And this one family with two children. And Mr. Haldane. And now that I think of it—”

“Wait a minute.” I knew that name. “Haldane? Tall, balding? With a younger wife, blonde and thin?”

“I don’t really know what he looks like, I’ve never seen them, but Caroline says he’s friendly and a good tipper. Chatty. Very, uh, affectionate with his wife, it made her uncomfortable sometimes—do you know him?”

“He lives next door to Adria Alcott.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She took a sudden sharp breath. “Is that—do you think—Ken!”

“It’s a connection,” I said. “It may be nothing. But you should call the police.”

“Right. Ken!” She hung up.

“Everything okay?” Rachel stood in the office doorway.

“You remember those neighbors? The woman who fell?” I was scrolling for Cunningham’s number on my phone. And checking out Rachel’s legs. I can multitask.

“Yeah.” She seemed annoyed that I was still on the phone.

“They may know the girl who just disappeared. Let me make a call.” Cunningham’s phone buzzed in my ear.

Rachel folded her arms with a smile. “You’re sexy when you do that.”

I got Cunningham’s voice mail. I left a message, then stood up. “Do what?”

She put her arms around my shoulders. “When you get that ‘Damn it, I’ve got to work’ look on your face.” She kissed me. “Come on. I’m taking a study break. All the experts recommend it.”

“Just a minute.” I had to call my client.

Rachel frowned. “Now you’re just pissing me off.”

“It’ll just take a minute.” I hoped. “Believe me, I’m just as—Ms. Alcott? Tom Jurgen here.”

“Yes? What’s going on?” Maureen asked as Rachel waited, leaning in the doorway.

“I was just talking to Caroline Tillens’s mother, and it turns out that your neighbor, Haldane? He’s also apparently a regular at the restaurant where Caroline works. And he also goes into the coffee shop where your daughter worked, at least often enough for the staff to know him by name.”

“Oh my God. What does that—I mean, Larry’s so nice. He’s devoted to Liz. That’s his wife, Elizabeth. I can’t imagine—”

“It may be nothing. Coincidence. But I wanted you to know, in case the police come by.”

“Okay.” She sounded hesitant, taking it in. “I’ll keep an eye out. I hope they find that girl.”

“Me too.” I looked at Rachel. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.” I hung up. “Ready?”

“Good thing for you psych makes me horny.” But she winked as she turned toward the bedroom. I made sure my phone was off as I followed.

Daughter Lost and Found, Part Three

Later, we took a shower, got dressed again, and I ordered Thai food while Rachel went back to studying, I checked my phone. Cunningham had called back with a quick, curt acknowledgment of my tip, saying he’d pass it on. And my client had called.

            “They were next door,” Maureen said. “The police. Talking to Larry Haldane.”

            At least they’d listened to us. “What happened?”

            “I saw them talking outside. One of the cops went inside, just for a minute. Then they left. I was going to go over and talk to him, but he was inside and I didn’t want to seem too nosy, you know? And then Adria had a meltdown.”

            “Is she okay?”

            “I don’t know. She just started shaking and moaning, and then screeching. It was right after the police left. I couldn’t do anything, but eventually she calmed down. She’s asleep now.”

            “And it was right after the police talked to Haldane?”

            “Yes. She saw him out on his porch. Then she went to her room, and a few minutes later I heard her moaning. Do you think—I don’t know what’s going on.” She sounded exhausted herself. 

            I looked at Rachel. But I wasn’t going to ask her to drive up to Evanston again. “How much do you know about Haldane?”

            “Not—not very much. He moved in about three years ago. I’ve been here—well, 20 years or so. Since I was married. A lot of people have moved in and out there. But I don’t really talk to them. He takes very good care of his wife.”

            “Elizabeth, right?” I grabbed a pen and started writing in my notebook.

            “Liz. She’s . . . quiet. I don’t think I’ve spoken to her more than half a dozen times since they moved in. I brought them a cake—”

            “All right. Let me see if there’s anything about Haldane that I—” The door buzzed. Thai food. “I’ll be in touch.”

            I paid for the food. Rachel wanted to keep studying, so I brought out my laptop to work while we ate, the cartons spread across the table in front of the TV. I opened beers for us, balanced a plate on one knee for my pad thai, and attacked the internet.

            In a few minutes I had the start of a profile for him. He was 52, founder of FriskyLife, a fertility clinic that also conducted clinical trials for experimental drugs and dabbled in sexual dysfunction too. He had degrees from Stanford, former posts at Henry Ford Clinic and Mayo. Married 12 years. I found some pictures of his wife, but nothing in detail, not even her original name.

            There was nothing to suggest he might be a serial kidnapper. I knew the cops could dig deeper if they wanted to, but from what Maureen had told me, they didn’t seem to be looking at Haldane very hard. And Rachel was deep into her books. I took another bite of pad thai and started to drill down some more.

            FriskyLife’s headquarters was in Northbrook, a suburb. Founded eight years ago, it had 170 employees now. Haldane was president and CEO, with a lot of Chief-Something-Something officers backing him up. The company was private, so there were no financials I could check. I found several lawsuits, but every company gets sued from time to time, and most were settled and sealed. 

            Haldane had been married before, and I made a note of his ex-wife’s name in case I needed to contact her. I eventually found some info on Elizabeth Haldane. Maiden name Bearson, she was in her early 30s, graduated from University of Illinois in Urbana with a degree in literature, loved dogs and wildflowers, and had gotten married to Haldane 12 years ago. Also, she’d been treated for cancer—the social media post didn’t specify what kind—and had apparently made a complete recovery, thanks to an experimental drug developed by, yes, FriskyLife.

            I checked the news for anything new about Caroline Tillens. Nothing. So I forced myself to put the laptop away and picked up a book I was reading about the battle of Stalingrad. Eventually Rachel yawned, closed her book and laptop and picked up the remote to relax with a reality show. “Ooh! Real Housewives of the Post-Apocalypse! I haven’t seen this in weeks! Stupid school.” She snuggled next to me. 

            I put the book away to watch with her. Reality TV is more Rachel’s thing than mine, but I was willing to tolerate it for a chance at—

            My phone buzzed. Maureen Alcott. Damn it. I tried to stand up, but Rachel grabbed my arm, keeping me close, so I answered. “Hello, Ms. Alcott, what’s going on?”

            “They just took Liz Haldane away in an ambulance.” She was whispering.

            Odd. “What happened?”

            “I don’t know. He went after them in his own car. I don’t know where they took her. I don’t—I mean, I don’t spy on my neighbors, but I saw the flashing lights, and after what happened with Adria, I just—couldn’t help watching.” She sounded embarrassed.

            “How is Adria?”

            “She woke up when the lights were going all over the place. I’m making her some soup now.”

            I wasn’t sure what she expected me to do with the information, but she didn’t push it. I told her I’d try looking into it, and asked her to call me if she heard anything we hung up.

            “You don’t have to rush out to save someone?” Rachel asked, her eyes still on the TV. “That’s nice.”

            “No, just a news flash about the neighbor’s wife going to the hospital.” I started to pick up my book.

            But Rachel knocked it out of my hand and turned the TV off. “Big test tomorrow, remember? I need to relax.” She leaned over to kiss me. 

            “I serve at your pleasure,” I told her.

 

The next morning I dropped Rachel off at campus for her test. I tried to kiss her for good luck, but she pushed me away. “Don’t distract me now, jerk,” she said, punching my shoulder. “Later. Maybe.”

            I watched her walk into the classroom building, and then I drove up to Evanston. Maureen Alcott opened the door, surprised. “Is there any news?”

            “No. Sorry.” I felt bad raising her hopes. “I wanted to talk to some people, and I thought I’d check in. Is Adria all right?”

            She sighed. “Better this morning.” She led me back to the kitchen and poured me some coffee. “Adria!” she called. “It’s Mr. Jurgen!”

            Adria appeared a moment later, and smiled at me. “Hi. Where’s your friend?”

            “She’s taking a test for class.” I crossed my fingers for her. “How are you feeling?”

            “Fine.” She sat down, and Maureen handed her a mug of coffee. “I didn’t feel good last night.”

            “What happened?”

            Adria rubbed her eyes. “There were these flashing lights, and then I saw that man, and then I just—I don’t know.” She looked at her mother. “I fell over, right? I think I threw up. And then mom put me to bed.”

            “After you saw the ambulance.” 

            She sipped her coffee and nodded.

            “Flashing lights can trigger a seizure,” I said. 

            “She’s never had seizures before,” Maureen told me.

            I nodded. “Did you call a doctor?”

            “We have an appointment for a scan. Tomorrow.” Maureen shook her head in frustration. “I mean, I almost called 911 last night, but then she calmed down, and today she’s—you feel better, don’t you, honey?”

            “Just tired.” She rubbed her eyes. “But I’ve got to go to work later. I’ll be okay.”

            It was probably nothing. Haldane’s wife had stumbled and fallen yesterday. I just couldn’t help wondering if he was somehow connected to what had happened to Adria. And Caroline Tillens.

            “Is Haldane back?” I asked.

            Maureen shook her head. “His car’s not there.”

            If I was a real private detective—meaning, if I was on TV—I would have gone over and broken into the house. But a guy like him would have a security system, and I was pretty sure Rachel wouldn’t visit me in jail. 

            If I knew what hospital they’d taken her to—”Did you notice what ambulance company took her?”

            Maureen blinked. “It might be on the security camera.”

            “You have a system?”

            “There’ve been some break-ins. Just a second.” She stood up, and came back two minutes later with a laptop. 

            I stood behind her to watch the video. Adria stayed seated on the other side of the table, nervous. After a moment she stood up and left without a word. 

            The camera was set up on the front porch with a wide view. The picture was gray and shadowy, but I could see headlights passing on the street. 

Maureen forwarded it, looking for the right section. “It was around 10:30, I think,” she said, tapping a key. “That’s it—no, not yet—wait—damn it—okay, there.”

Silver light flared and faded, then stopped. I could make out the hood of a van, with glare across the windshield. Doors opened and closed silently. Dark figures glided forward and disappeared. Then one person came back to get inside and move the car again, further up the driveway.

I squinted, peering at the side of the ambulance. FL Medical Services. Its logo was an oval shape that looked like an egg, with a small white circle inside, like an eye. Then the two figures came back, blocking it, rolling a stretcher. A third figure followed, pointing.

The stretcher went into the back of the ambulance. The two figures climbed in, and the ambulance backed down the driveway and turned.

Maureen tapped the forward command a few times. “There he is, driving away.” I saw a dark car pull down the driveway to follow the ambulance.

We backed it up for another look at the side of the ambulance. “FL Medical Services.” I thought for a moment.

“Florida?” Maureen shook her head. “That’s a long way away—”

“No. May I?” I pulled my chair around to use her laptop. In a few seconds I was on the FriskyLife website. “Haldane is CEO here,” I told her, clicking keys. “And—huh.”

One of their of their business units was called FL Medical Services, for transporting supplies, including organs for transplant, specimens for testing, and occasionally patients.

“He called his own company for her?” Maureen looked at me. “Where did they take her? Is this—does it have anything to do with Adria?”

I wished I knew. “Maybe not. But he knows your daughter and the other girl. How was he when Adria disappeared?”

“He asked about her a lot. Told me he was sure she’d come home. Not more than that, I guess. I didn’t really notice, I was so out of my mind worrying.”

Adria returned to the kitchen. “I’m going to work, mom.” She glanced at me. “Say hi to Rachel.”

“I will.” I smiled. She was in jeans and a T-shirt, with the bracelet on her wrist. I remembered Rachel commenting on it. 

Then I remembered something else. ”Adria? Could you hang on a minute?”

She turned from the door, hesitant. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Could I just take a look at your bracelet?”

She sighed like an irritated teenager. “Sure.” She held out her arm.

I peered at the stone. Black. Egg shaped, with a small white oval in the center. Like an eye.

I turned back to the computer and leaned down, looking at the logo on the ambulance. An oval with an eye.

“What is it?” Maureen peered at the frozen image.

“That logo looks like Adria’s bracelet.” I pointed from the screen to her daughter.

Adria clapped a hand over the bracelet. “What are you talking about?”

Maureen blinked. “Oh my God—it does. Sort of.”

Adria stared at us. “Mom? 

“You got that from Rick, right?” I asked. “Rick Dunley.”

“Y-yeah. I guess.” She looked at Maureen. “That’s what you said.”

“I talked to him,” I said, thinking back to our conversation. “He mentioned Adria being paranoid about her neighbor, but he said that was nothing.” I looked at Adria. She’d seemed nervous seeing him yesterday—when his wife tripped and fell. And the ambulance last night had triggered her seizure. 

I looked at Maureen. “Do you have Haldane’s cell phone number? Or email?”

She nodded hesitantly. “Y-yeah. His number. We exchanged numbers when he moved in. For emergencies.”

“How weird would it be for you to call him right now and just ask about his wife?”

Maureen thought it over. “I could do that.”

A minute later we listened to his phone buzz. “Hi, this is Larry Haldane, please leave a message—” Beep. Maureen looked at me, then spoke:

“Hi, Larry, it’s Maureen from next door. I just wanted to make sure everything’s all right. I saw them taking Liz in an ambulance last night. Is she okay? Just checking.” Then she looked at me again. “Uh, I wanted to mention, you might get a call from Tom Jurgen. He’s a man I hired to check out what happened to Adria. Here’s his number . . .” She read it from my phone. “He’s just looking for information. I hope you’ll help him. Well, thanks. Hope Liz is okay. ‘Bye!” She hung up.

“Perfect,” I told her. “Let me know if he calls. Try to find out where she’s at. Or let me know if she comes home.” I stood up. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Thank you.” Maureen picked up my coffee. “I hope—I just hope we find something out.”

“Me too,” I said.

 

I spent an hour or so checking out the rest of Adria’s friends, in person when I could find them or on the phone when I couldn’t. I got nothing, which I’d pretty much expected, but the job is about being thorough, and you never know when something will pop up by surprise.

            But I struck out. Back home, I found Rachel at her computer, frantically designing some marketing content for a client with a deadline. “How’d the test go?”

            “Horrible. Fine. Great. I can’t think right now. Shut up.” 

            I grinned, sat down, and started working on some of the other cases I was handling, employee background checks and one possible embezzlement case. 

            I stopped for lunch and brought Rachel a sandwich. “Thanks,” she muttered, snatching the plate from me. “Anything on your case?”

            “I’m looking into the neighbor, Haldane. I don’t know. Oh, Adria says hi.”  I went back to my desk and the embezzlement job.

            My phone buzzed. Haldane. “Hello, Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is Larry Haldane. My neighbor, Maureen Alcott, said I should give you a call.”

            “Yes, thanks for calling me back.” I wouldn’t have bet a lot of money that he’d do it, but it was a nice break. “First of all, if I can ask, how is your wife? I understand she went to the, uh, hospital last night?”

            “She’s—fine. It’s an autoimmune condition. Serious, but treatable. Not COVID, thank God.” 

            “That’s good, Where is she being treated?”

            “It’s a, uh, a private facility. We’re taking good care of her.”

            We? That was interesting, but I didn’t want to push it right now. “Well, the reason I wanted to talk to you was to ask something.”

“Yes?” He was suspicious. Waiting for a trap.

“It seems like you’re a regular customer at the coffee shop where Adria was working when she disappeared, and also at the restaurant where Caroline Tillens worked. She’s also disappeared—”

            “Yes, I know. What are you asking?” He was on guard. Suspicious.

            “I was wondering if you’d seen anyone suspicious at either place. Maybe the same person at both places?” I waited.

            “Well, that’s—no. No, I don’t think so.” He paused. “I’m not sure I would have noticed that anyway.”

            “What about your wife?”

            “What? I can’t ask her that right now. Maybe when she’s feeling better, but—frankly, I’ve got a lot to handle here—”

            “I understand. I’m sorry to bother you. If you happen to think of anything—”

            “I’ll let you know. Good-bye.” He hung up on me.

            “What was that about?” Rachel had turned in her chair to listen to my end of the conversation.

            “Haldane. Adria’s next-door neighbor? I was just trying to see his reaction.”

            She cocked her head. “And?”

            “He was pretty quick to get off the phone.” I picked up my water bottle. “I didn’t want to accuse him of anything straight, because he can afford expensive lawyers. Best-case scenario, he thinks I’m too stupid to consider him a suspect.”

            “You can do stupid pretty convincingly,” Rachel said.

            “Thanks.” I sipped some water. “Or he just hung up fast because he knew what I was really asking. Either way, I just hope he doesn’t sue me before I can figure out whether he’s really involved in this or I’m just delusional.”

            Rachel frowned. “Can’t you figure out a way for me to meet him? Maybe I could pick something up.”

            I hesitated. “I didn’t want to ask. I know how busy you are—”

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t you think I miss this?” Rachel stomped a foot. “I’m stuck here studying and working and you’re out there having fun solving mysteries—”

            “I haven’t solved anything yet.”

            She glared at me. “You know what I mean.”

            “Yeah.” I walked over to her chair, leaned down, and kissed her. “I miss you too.”

            She kissed me back, then pushed me away. “Don’t get any ideas, mister. I’m either working for you or going back to work here. Which one is it?”

            I sighed regretfully. “Let me make a phone call. Maybe we can get you back into the game.” I patted her shoulder and headed back to my desk. 

            I tapped the number, waited, then asked for Rick Dunley. A moment later he answered. “Yeah, Mr. Jurgen, what can I do for you? I’m rather busy—”

            “Have you or your firm ever done any work for a company called FriskyLife? It’s a fertility clinic in Northbrook.”

            “I don’t—uh, I think so. I’d have to look it up, but I can’t give you any details about our clients.”

            “Did you know that FriskyLife’s CEO is Adria Alcott’s next-door neighbor?”

            Long pause. “Where are you going with this?”

            “That bracelet you gave to Adria has the FriskyLife logo on it. It’s identical to the one on their website. Did you get it from there?”

            He paused for a long time, as if trying to think of an innocent explanation. Finally he sighed. “All right, fine. You got me.” He sounded angry. But also nervous. “Yeah, it’s a promotional thing I picked up from them, not something I bought in a jewelry store. But she liked it when I gave it to her. How is this any of your business?”

            “Do you know Haldane? Have you met him?”

            “Yeah, yeah, I was in a couple of meetings with him. So what?”

            “Larry Haldane is connected, at least somewhat, to Adria and to Caroline Tillens. And you’re connected to Adria. I’m just trying to find out if the connections go any deeper.” I waited.     

            Rachel was watching. She gave me a thumbs up.

Dunley hesitated. Finally he said, “Look, I don’t know anything about Caroline Tillens. I don’t know what happened to Adria. But . . . Larry knew I was dating her. Somehow. I never told him, but he asked about it once. Maybe twice. It was kind of creepy. But I never had that much contact with him. Just a couple of meetings. It wasn’t even a lawsuit, just some patent documentation. But I can tell you . . .” His voice trailed off.

“What is it?” I tried to sound as patient as I could.

“There’s something weird going on out at that place.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s a building in the back with its own guard at the door, and cameras watching everything. I asked what was in there, and everyone clammed up.”

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But it’s something secret.”

Secrets always make a detective curious. I thanked him and hung up. 

“What do you think?” Rachel looked at me, ignoring her work.

Maybe it was nothing. I’d have to get an okay from my client. But there was only one way I could think of to get into FriskyLife’s headquarters and get close to the secret building without tipping Haldane off.

“So.” I leaned forward. “Do you want to have a baby?”