“I asked the guy to include everything from the night prior to last,” Joe says as a black-and-white image of the gas pumps pops up.
Behind it the road is visible, including the entrance to the park’s small parking lot across the street. There’s a date stamp in the corner, a clock counting underneath.
“Do you remember about what time you got home last night?” Matt asks me.
I can’t believe it was only last night. Feels like days have passed.
“Probably seven thirty or thereabouts.”
Joe rewinds the clip to seven fifteen, yesterday evening, and lets it play while we crowd around. In the next ten minutes only six vehicles drive into the neighborhood as they pass the gas station. One I recognize as one of my neighbor’s, one is a UPS van that reappears three minutes later on its way out, just like a small SUV we see pass twice, both coming and going. Could be a pizza delivery or something like that.
At seven twenty-eight my car comes into view. I point at the screen.
“There.”
We all bend closer, waiting to see if we might’ve been followed. Thirty-two seconds later a dark-colored, four-door sedan rolls by.
“Is that an unmarked police car?” I wonder out loud.
“Looks like,” Joe agrees. “Not really close enough to be following you.”
Unfortunately, from this angle it’s impossible to see a license plate.
“Can’t rule it out. We came from Irvine so I would’ve made a left at the traffic light to drive into the subdivision. They might’ve caught a red light and been forced to wait.”
Matt taps Joe on the shoulder.
“We’ll know soon enough. Keep going.”
Watching that little red car drive by is harder than I thought.
If not for that damn car, Sawyer would’ve been safely at home.
Chad bought it for her when she turned sixteen. Of course, my daughter was over the moon and Becky didn’t see a problem with it, so by the time I found out it was a done deal, I’d been set up to be the bad guy once again. That didn’t mean I dropped the issue, and that car was the cause of many an argument since they’ve allowed her to drive it by herself when, by law, she’s supposed have a fully licensed driver beside her until she’s fucking eighteen. It’s been an ongoing dispute, and the reason I no longer even attempt to be civil when I bump into Chad.
“There it is again,” Joe says, pointing at the screen where I can just make out the front of the car.
“Slow it down frame by frame,” Matt instructs him.
Under the beam from the streetlamp, you can clearly see a single person outlined in the car as it slowly comes into view.
Sawyer.
Then suddenly the Mazda is lit up from behind by flashing lights and we watch her abruptly turn into the small parking lot.
The unmarked police car pulls in right behind her, only briefly showing an individual behind the wheel.
“Sonofabitch,” Matt mutters under his breath.
My blood chills as I watch both cars pull almost out of view of the security camera. The only thing visible is the trunk of the police car, its brake lights bright.
Damn, no license plate on the rear bumper.
Then, suddenly, they go dark and the flashing lights are turned off. I know whoever is in that car is getting out and walking up to my daughter’s window. All the hair on my body stands on end as my eyes stay glued to the screen for what seems like an eternity, but is likely only a few minutes.
There’s no visible movement until the taillights come on, and the car starts backing up.
One more flash of a single individual behind the wheel before he speeds away and out of sight.
Taking my daughter with him.
Twenty-four hours ago.
I drop my head when blood rushes in my ears and my knees feel weak. Twenty-four hours is a long fucking time.
“Back it up a bit.”
Matt must’ve seen something and my head snaps up as I watch Joe play it in reverse, frame by frame. I’m focused on the inside of the car, trying to catch a glimpse of either my daughter or the bastard who took her.
“There. Freeze it.”
On the screen, the vehicle is just about to turn onto the street. All I can distinguish is a decent set of shoulders and part of his head. The face stays in the shadows so I can’t make out any features.
“What are you seeing?”
Matt taps on the screen where the light beam from the lamppost across the road just reaches the car’s grill.
“It’s a Crown Vic,” I point out. “Not an active department vehicle. Those were all replaced by the Ford Police Interceptor as the standard police issue vehicle by 2020.”
“Exactly,” Matt concurs. “Zoom in?”
When Joe does as he asks, I notice the license plate on the front bumper.
Unfortunately, it’s virtually illegible.
“I’m gonna send this to my contact at the crime lab, he might be able to clean it up some,” Matt says.
I don’t hold out much hope, but there may be another way to try and track down whose car that is.
“When the old cruisers were decommissioned, they were auctioned off. I bet you those records are still around somewhere.”
Matt turns to me with a smile.
“Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”
Despite the dire situation, I find myself grinning back.
It’s a start.
TWENTY-THREE
Opal
I can see the lights on at Remington’s house from a distance.
I’d called Lee when I left Richmond to let him know there would be an SUV parked in front of his house belonging to GEM. I didn’t want him to get spooked while I’m trying to get there.
I reach beside me, comforted when I encounter the cold steel of my personal arsenal, which I moved from the trunk to the passenger seat a block from the Miller residence. Jacob sent a message as I was leaving the house, telling me he’d left something in the rental’s trunk for me. I don’t know how he managed to get the contents of my gun safe from the impound lot, or how it got from there into the car, but that’s Jacob for you. His connections are as much of a mystery as the man himself.
I’m not about to question it, not when having my weapons within reach makes me feel better prepared for any situation.
Janey’s vehicle is parked a few doors down across the street. When I back into the driveway—easier for a quick getaway if needed—I see her get out and start crossing the street toward me.
“All quiet,” she says, looking past me at the house through narrowed eyes.
“Good.”
“How’s Mitch?”
“Angry, frustrated, scared out of his mind,” I inform her, trying not to feel hurt by his reaction earlier.
I’ve dealt with enough parents to know their reactions can be unpredictable and emotion driven. They often feel useless, frustrated, and can lash out—even at each other—with little provocation.
I could handle his angry words, but when he turned away from me, avoiding my touch, it hit harder. I remind myself it wasn’t personal.
At least I hope it wasn’t.
Not that it would make any difference, I wouldn’t do anything different.
The best chance we have of finding Sawyer, or any of the other kids, is if we can do our work without the restrictions law enforcement is limited with.