“Almost 160 miles,” Renee confirmed. “Around three hours’ driving time.”
“Quite a journey. And you’ve no idea what she was doing out there in the desert?”
Renee shrugged helplessly and dropped her eyes to the table. “None at all,” she said. “We paid for a missing person ad on a billboard close to where her van was found. Offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward but we had to withdraw the cash after the tips line was inundated with cranks.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet it was.” Connor returned to his seat.
“Were her personal effects recovered from the vehicle?” Jessica asked. “Purse, wallet, cell phone?”
“All missing.”
“There was nothing left behind at all?”
“Just the paintings.”
“What paintings?”
“They found them in the back of the van,” Renee said. “They were both Laurie’s own. Wrapped up in brown paper like they were sales. But there were no appointments in her planner and her sales transactions usually take place at work. I don’t know if it’s significant. The police didn’t seem to think so.”
“Where are the paintings now?”
“At her apartment.”
“May we take a look around her apartment?”
“Of course.”
Renee fished in her purse and came up with a bunch of keys. Slipped one off the ring and handed it to Jessica. “Here’s the spare. I don’t have one for the workspace but Elizabeth can show you around.”
“Was there any sign of a struggle or foul play?” Jessica asked.
“None. No blood. No damage. The van doors weren’t even left open.” Renee laughed bitterly. “That’s why the cops did precisely nothing when we reported Laurie missing. She’s an adult so apparently that means she has the right to walk away from her life, and everyone who loves her, without any sort of an explanation, and they won’t do a damn thing about it.”
It wasn’t a crime to be a missing person, so Jessica knew the police’s role in situations like this was often limited. Unless foul play was suspected or the individual was a critical missing—regarded as endangered due to medical problems or life-threatening situations—there wasn’t a whole lot the cops could do with regards to an investigation. Especially in a place like Los Angeles, where up to three hundred people a month were reported missing. That’s where folks like Jessica and Connor came in.
“We’ll do everything we can to bring Laurie home, Renee,” Connor said. “Is there anything else before we finish up?”
Renee chewed on her bottom lip. “I should probably tell you about the others. It might be nothing but it might be something.”
Jessica and Connor glanced at each other, then they both stared at Renee.
“The others?” Jessica asked.
“What others?” Connor said.
“The other missing women.”
2
DEA—1990
“Girl Most Likely to Succeed.”
It was at times like this—fingers red raw and wrinkled, the stench of bleach making her eyes sting—that Dea Morgan would think about that silly yearbook prediction and she would laugh.
If she didn’t laugh, she’d cry.
And no way was she going to allow that to happen. Not right now anyway. Maybe later when she was at home, trying to snatch a few hours’ sleep on the lumpy sofa, she’d let the tears fall. Quietly so Buddy wouldn’t hear in the next room. But she would not cry in public and definitely not at work. She didn’t have a whole lot of self-respect left, but she still had some.
Looking back, it was easy to see why she’d been voted “Girl Most Likely to Succeed” in her senior year at Brodie High School. Dea had never been the prettiest girl, or the funniest, or the biggest flirt, or the best dressed. But she’d definitely been the smartest. Student council president, class president, member of the debating team, straight “A”s without really trying. She’d been accepted to a much-coveted Ivy League school that should have changed her life.
And, boy, did her life change that summer.
Just not in the way she’d expected. One night—not long after graduation—had changed everything.
If her classmates had had a crystal ball back then, had been able to glimpse into the future, their predictions might have been somewhat different. Something along the lines of:
“Most Likely to Be a Single Mom.”
“Most Likely to Have Two Jobs that Still Barely Pay the Rent.”
“Most Likely to Wind Up Living in a One-Bed Mobile Home.”
Or how about . . . her personal favorite?
“Most Likely to Scrub the Shit off Strangers’ Toilet Bowls for a Living.”
No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a stranger today. It was much worse than that. Someone from her past, from Brodie, who didn’t need a high school reunion to find out exactly how things had turned out for the “Girl Most Likely to Succeed.”
Dea didn’t know who was more shocked and embarrassed when she’d shown up for her new cleaning job and Kristy Jensen had opened the door.
Kristy Jensen a.k.a. the “Girl Most Likely to be Happy.”
Judging by the huge McMansion on one of the best streets in Yucca Valley and the gleaming Ford F-150 parked in the driveway, so shiny you could fix your makeup in the reflection on the paintwork, Dea figured her old classmates might just have called that one right.
Eight years on and, as well as the house and the car, Kristy Jensen still had the same size two figure, perky blonde ponytail and toothpaste commercial smile she’d had in high school. The smile had definitely faltered when she’d spotted Dea Morgan standing on her doorstep in her cleaning scrubs with her plastic caddy stuffed full of bleach and rags and furniture polish.
“Oh, hey, Kristy,” Dea had said brightly. “I didn’t know you lived in Yucca Valley too. What a coincidence. Small world, huh?” Fake laugh. “Mr. Jenner—that’s your husband, right?—hired me to clean the house. I guess he saw my ad in the Post Office window and, well, here I am!”
She’d been aiming for the sweet spot between nonchalance and cheerfulness. Had sounded borderline manic instead.
“Dea! How great to see you!” Reciprocal fake laugh from Kristy. “Yes, Derek mentioned someone would be coming round to help with the cleaning. He wants to make things a little easier for me, you know? Come on in.”
Make things a little easier? What the hell was so hard about Kristy Jensen’s life?
Two minutes later and Kristy’s truck was spitting gravel as she’d headed for the nearest Ralphs to pick up some groceries, leaving Dea to her cleaning duties.
Dea had wondered meanly why Kristy’s husband didn’t just pay someone to do the grocery shopping too. Then she’d realized the other woman was probably trying to save them both any further embarrassment by not sticking around while Dea dusted and scrubbed and polished. A quick peek inside the fully stocked cupboards and over-stuffed fridge-freezer had confirmed her suspicions.
Dea pushed herself up from the tiled bathroom floor now and groaned as the bones in her knees cracked. Jeez, she was only twenty-five but she felt like she was 105. To be fair to Kristy, her toilet bowl had already been pretty clean. No shitty residue like some of Dea’s other clients. Sometimes, rich people could be filthy pigs. She pegged Kristy as one of those women who felt the need to clean before the cleaner arrived, in case the hired help thought badly of her.