Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

Conklin and I had the missing women’s photos, home addresses, and work schedules but knew little about their personalities, habits, and relationships. Karin Slaughter was eager to fill us in.

“Carly Myers is a born leader,” she said. “She’s the one to organize a party or a field trip. She teaches history and loves sports. Baseball, football, whatever. I’d say she’s outgoing and adventuresome. In a good way.”

Then Slaughter described Jones, who taught music, was divorced, watched late-night TV every night, and had lost thirty-five pounds in the last year. “She’s fun and a gifted pianist, and she’s looking for love,” Slaughter said. She’d bought skinny jeans and become a blonde.

We asked about Saran next, and Slaughter told us that she was new to the school. “She came here about a year ago from a public school in Monterey. Teaches English lit, reads a lot, and works out at our gym every day at lunch. She’s thoughtful. Serious. She’d been coming out of her shell lately. We’re good for her, I’d say. Although now…”

Conklin and I had questions: Had any of the women had any recent problems at the school with students or faculty? Had any of them received threats? Did they have addictions, any trouble with relatives or suitors? Any sign of depression?

No, no, no, no.

According to Slaughter, the three young women had perfect attendance records, were well liked, and, except for Adele, were dating a bit.

“This is hell,” she told us. “I feel very bad to say this, but really, I could be missing right now. You could be looking for me. Please tell me that they could still be…safe.”

I couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear, so I deflected.

“Every cop in the city is looking for them. Our forensics lab is going over their cars and apartments and electronics. We’re in contact with their parents. We will find your friends.”

I was reassuring Slaughter and convincing myself that we’d have a solid lead on this crime by day’s end. There had to be a video, a witness, a tip, that would lead to the missing schoolteachers. Right? Even a ransom call would be welcome.

We thanked Karin Slaughter for her help, urged her to call if something useful occurred to her, and headed to our next appointment.

By the end of the school day, my partner and I had spoken to two dozen people at the school and had gotten a few thin, go-nowhere leads. We stopped off at the forensics lab around five that evening.

Clapper was putting on his jacket when we walked in.

“Their cars are dirty,” he told us. “Like, regular dirty. A lot of fingerprints, dirt on the floor mats, water bottles. We’re running the prints off all of that. Nothing jumps out from their personal or office computers, but we’re still working on those and their cell phone histories.”

“So…nothing to tell us, right?”

“Boxer. We’re dancing as fast as we can,” said Clapper.

The three of us walked out to the parking lot together.

Even small talk eluded us.

Where were those women? With who? What had happened to them?

Chapter 6

Joe Molinari left his office at the San Francisco branch of the FBI at around seven and walked to where he’d parked his car, on Golden Gate Avenue near Larkin.

This district, between Civic Center and the Tenderloin, was a maze of dark streets populated by rent-by-the-hour hotels and was the go-to neighborhood for drug pushers and their clientele, criminals (some of them violent), and the terminally out of luck.

Joe’s keys were in hand and his car was under a streetlight, apparently untouched. He was thinking about home and dinner when he saw a woman sitting on the curb near his car with her head in her hands. She was sobbing.

As he came closer, Joe saw that she was wearing only one shoe and that her jacket sleeve was ripped at the shoulder. But otherwise, the quality of her clothing was good. Joe didn’t think she was homeless.

Maybe she’d been mugged.

“Hey there,” he said.

The woman looked up. The streetlight revealed a disfiguring burn scar on the left side of her face from the outer corner of her eye to her upper lip. She pulled at her scarf to cover it.

“Are you okay?” Joe asked.

“Fantastic,” she said.

Then her expression crumpled and she lowered her head into her hands again.

Joe sat down on the curb next to her.

“What’s your name?”

She dried her face with her sleeve and eventually said, “Anna.”

“I’m Joe. Are you hurt, Anna?”

“Big picture or little picture?” she said.

He smiled at her. He gauged her age as late thirties. She had an accent. Eastern European.

“Immediate picture first. Are you injured?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think so. I fell off my bike.”

She pointed to the bike leaning against a building a little way down the block. The frame was bent and the chain was broken. It looked like it had some mileage on it before the accident.

“Do you need a lift?”

She looked very unsure. Vulnerable. He really didn’t feel right leaving her in this neighborhood sitting on the sidewalk with her backpack.

“It’s okay,” he said. He opened the flap of his jacket and showed her his badge.

“Can I see that badge again?”

He showed it to her again, and she leaned in so she could read the inscription around the crest: Federal Bureau of Investigation. She pulled back and said, “A lift would be great.”

Joe asked Anna where she lived and helped her into his car. He got the bike, folded it into the trunk, and called Lindsay from the street.

“Blondie, I’m going to be a little late. A half hour, tops.”

After they hung up, he got behind the wheel of his Benz. Anna was hugging the passenger-side door. She said, “Thank you.”

“Happy to help out.”

He started the car and headed east on Golden Gate, making a number of turns until they’d cleared the Tenderloin. He said, “Anna, tell me if you can. Why were you sitting by yourself on a corner in the worst neighborhood in the city?”

“I went to the FBI to tell them. I guess I look disreputable, because no one would listen to me. You won’t believe me, either.”

“I’m a good listener,” he said. “Give me a try.”

Chapter 7

Joe strained to hear Anna over the street sounds on McAllister.

Her voice cracked and then splintered as she worked to tell him what had brought her to the FBI. In the few words he clearly understood, he recognized the name of a war criminal who had been responsible for the death of thousands many years before.

“You’re from Bosnia?”

She dipped her head. Yes.

“Srebrenica?”

“No. Djoba.”

Djoba had been the warm-up act for the massacre at Srebrenica.

Joe knew a lot about the wars in Bosnia: How the six people’s republics that had formed Yugoslavia had torn the country apart. Serbs living in both Bosnia and Croatia had sought to unite with their brothers in Serbia. Fighting between the Orthodox Christian Serbs and Muslim Bosnians had been particularly savage, a continuation of the wars set off by the Ottoman invasions centuries before.

But this was genocide—the slaughter of thousands of men and boys, the rapes of thousands of women, and the brutal murders of children.

Anna tried to stifle her tears, and then she broke down. Joe reached across to the glove box and handed her a packet of tissues, regretting that he hadn’t asked her to come up to his office. She should be talking to the duty agent, who would decide if a case should be opened.

Meanwhile, she deserved his full attention and he had to watch the road. Joe buzzed up the windows and shut off the heat so he could better understand what Anna was saying.