Harlan Coben - Long Lost

“That’s it,” he said. “I never saw her again. Or any of those kids she hung out with. It’s like they disappeared.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

He shook his head.

“How did you explain your injuries?”

“I said I got jumped outside the concert. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” I said. “But we need to find her, Ken. Do you have any clue where Carrie might be?”

He said nothing.

“Ken?”

“I asked her where she lived. She wouldn’t tell me.”

I waited.

“But one day”-he stopped, took a deep breath-“I followed her after she left the library.”

Ken looked away and blinked.

“So you know where she lives?”

He shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Can you show me where you followed her to?”

Ken shook his head. “I can give you directions,” he said. “But I don’t want to go with you, okay? Right now I just want to go home.”

The chain that blocked our way had a sign on it that read: PRIVATE ROAD.

We pulled ahead and parked around the corner. There was nothing in view but crop fields and woods. So far, our various sources had come up with nothing on any Carrie Steward. The name may have been a pseudonym, but everyone was still searching. Esperanza called me and said, “I have something that might interest you.”

“Go ahead.”

“You mentioned a Dr. Jimenez, a young resident who worked with Dr. Cox when he was starting up CryoHope?”

“Right.”

“Jimenez is also connected to Save the Angels. He attended a retreat that they sponsored sixteen years ago. I’m going to run a search on him, see if he can give us some information on the embryo adoption.”

“Okay, good.”

“Is Carrie short for anything?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Caroline?”

“I’ll check and get back to you when I know something.”

“One more thing.” I gave her the closest intersection. “Can you Google the address and see what you come up with?”

“Nothing coming up under the address in terms of who lives there. Looks like you’re on farmland or something. No idea who owns it. Want me to look into it?”

“Please.”

“Back to you as soon as I can.”

I hung up. Berleand said, “Take a look.”

He pointed at a tree near the front of the road. A security camera was aimed at the entrance.

“Strict security,” he said, “for a farm.”

“Ken told us about the private road. He said Carrie walked up it.”

“If we do that, we will most certainly be seen.”

“If the camera is even in use. It could be just a prop.”

“No,” Berleand said. “A prop would be more in plain sight.”

He had a point.

“We could simply walk up the road anyway,” I said.

“Trespassing,” Berleand added.

“Big deal. We need to do something here, right? There must be a farmhouse or something up the drive.” Then I thought about something. “Wait a second.”

I called Esperanza back.

“You’re in front of the computer, right?”

“Right,” she said.

“Google-map the location I just gave you.”

Quick typing. “Okay, got it.”

“Now click the Satellite Photo option and zoom in.”

“Hold on. . okay, it’s up.”

“What’s up that small road on the right side of the road?”

“Lots of green and what looks like a pretty big house from the top. Maybe two hundred yards from where you are, no more. It’s all alone up there.”

“Thanks.”

I hung up. “There’s a big house.”

Berleand took off his glasses, cleaned them, held them up to the light, cleaned them some more. “What do we think is going on here exactly?”

“Truth?”

“Preferably.”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Do you think Carrie Steward is in that big house?” he asked.

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

With the chain blocking the driveway, we decided to take it on foot. I called Win and filled him in on everything that was going on in case something went very wrong. He decided to come up after he checked on Terese one more time. Berleand and I debated and concluded that we might as well try just going up to the door and ringing the bell.

There was still light, but the sun was in its death throes. We stepped over the chain, started up the middle of the road, past the security camera. There were trees on either side of us. It seemed at least half of them had a NO TRESPASSING sign stapled to them. The road wasn’t paved but it seemed to be in pretty good shape. In some spots there was gravel, but for the most part it was loose dirt. Berleand made a face and walked on tiptoes. He kept wiping his hands against the sides of his legs and licking his lips.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

“Don’t like what?”

“Dirt, the woods, bugs. It all feels so unclean.”

“Right,” I said, “but that strip joint, Upscale Pleasures, that was sanitary.”

“Hey, that was a classy gentlemen’s club. Didn’t you read the sign?”

Up ahead, I saw a line of shrubs and over that, a little bit in the distance, I could make out a gray-blue mansard roof.

A little ding sounded in my head. I picked up my pace.

“Myron?”

Behind us I heard the chain drop to the ground and a car come up. I moved faster, wanting to get a better look. I glanced behind me as a county police car pulled up. Berleand stopped. I didn’t.

“Sir? You’re trespassing on private property.”

I rounded the corner. There was a fence surrounding the property. More security. But now, from this vantage point, I could see the mansion straight on.

“Stop right there. That’s far enough.”

I did stop. I looked ahead at the mansion. The sight confirmed what I’d suspected the moment I had seen the mansard roof. The house looked like the perfect bed-and-breakfast-a picturesque, almost overdone Victorian home with turrets, towers, stained-glass windows, a lemonade porch, and yep, a blue-gray mansard roof.

I had seen the house on the Save the Angels Web site.

It was one of their homes for unwed mothers.

Two police officers got out of the car.

They were young and muscle-bloated and had the cocky cop-stride. They also wore Mountie hats. Mountie hats, I thought, looked silly and seemed counterproductive to law enforcement activities, but I kept that to myself.

“Something we can do for you gentlemen?” one of the officers said.

He was the taller of the two, his shirtsleeves cutting into his biceps like two tourniquets. His name tag said “Taylor.”

Berleand took out the photograph. “We are looking for this girl.”

The officer took the photograph, glanced at it, handed it to his partner with the name tag “Erickson.” Taylor said, “And you are?”

“Captain Berleand from the Brigade Criminelle in Paris.”

Berleand handed Taylor his badge and identification. Taylor took it with two fingers as though Berleand had handed him a paper bag full of steaming dog poo. He studied the ID for a moment and then gestured toward me with his chin. “And who’s your friend here?”

I waved. “Myron Bolitar,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“How are you involved in this, Mr. Bolitar?”

I was going to say, long story, but thought that maybe it wasn’t really that complicated: “The girl we’re looking for may be the daughter of my girlfriend.”

“May be?” Taylor turned back to Berleand. “Okay, Inspector Clouseau, you want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“‘Inspector Clouseau,’” Berleand repeated. “That’s very funny. Because I’m French, right?”

Taylor just stared at him.