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.
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