Mike Omer - In the Darkness

Finally, Foster’s car parked on the side of the street. Tatum slowed down, pulling to the side behind him. The road’s edges met with grass and dirt, no sidewalk anywhere. There was a large cluster of wild bushes and foliage to their right, and beyond it, a gravel road.

He switched off the engine and stepped out of the car.

Foster waited for them with his hands on his hips, his eyes hidden by a pair of dark shades. He indicated down the gravel path. “That’s the house.”

Tatum looked down the road. The house was small but seemed well maintained. The grass in the front yard was mowed, and clusters of flowers grew around it. The sprinklers were running, painting the air in a misty hue. He thought of Sophia Medina, Nicole’s mother, worried sick about her daughter.

“No streetlights,” Zoe said by his side.

“And the house is about fifteen yards from the road,” Tatum pointed out. “No immediate neighbors.”

“He could hide here easily.” Zoe pointed at the foliage and then gestured back the way they had come. “With his vehicle over there, just a few yards down the road. There’s a spot no one would notice.”

Her cheeks and forehead were turning pink, but she didn’t seem to notice the sun at all. Was she even aware the sun was up? Or did she see the street as it was, late in the evening, four days ago, when Nicole Medina had been taken? She took a few steps to the thick foliage, crouched between the low trees and bushes. Tatum eyed her position. She was right: if the kidnapper had hidden there, he would have been practically invisible in the dark.

The door to Nicole Medina’s home opened abruptly, and a woman half marched, half ran to them, her entire body rigid with tension.

“Detective,” she said. “Any news about Nicole?”

“No, Mrs. Medina, I’m sorry,” Foster answered gently.

The woman’s body slumped, and she turned to look at Tatum.

“This is Agent Gray.” Foster gestured. “From the FBI. He’s here to help us investigate your daughter’s case.”

Tatum was used to seeing a spectrum of emotions on people’s faces when realizing that a fed had entered their life. But the only reaction he saw from Sophia Medina was a slight measure of relief.

“Thank you,” she said. “She’s been missing for four days.”

“I understand,” Tatum said. “The detective—”

“She went with her friends to a party. They dropped her off here.” Her words rushed out of her mouth, frantic, urgent. “They’re nice kids; I know them all. Gina practically grew up in our house. She’s Nicole’s best friend. And they dropped Nicole here. She was right here. But I don’t think she entered the house. She didn’t use her toothbrush, and her clothes weren’t in the laundry. She always changes her clothes, always brushes her teeth before going to bed. I can give you the phone numbers of all her friends. And her teachers. Her teachers all love her—they can tell you—”

Tatum raised his palms in a reassuring gesture, and the torrent of words died. The woman stared at him pleadingly.

A rustle came from the bushes, and Sophia’s eyes shifted as Zoe stepped out from them.

“This is my partner, Zoe Bentley.” He intentionally neglected to add Zoe’s title. He really didn’t want to explain to Sophia why a forensic psychologist was investigating Nicole’s case.

“Mind if we come in?” Foster asked.

Sophia nodded and led them inside, past the cool haze of mist from the sprinklers. The house was dark, most of the blinds shut, the lights turned off. Only one of the windows was open, facing the street, a single chair by it. An ashtray and several empty mugs of coffee were scattered on the floor next to the chair. This was Sophia’s sentry post. She probably sat there, waiting for the police to show up. And maybe hoping that Nicole would stroll down the gravel path and come back home.

“Could you take us to your daughter’s room, please?” Zoe’s voice was subdued. The silent dark house felt like a place of mourning. Loud voices did not belong.

“Her room’s over here.” The woman led them to a small room. The walls were painted a soft yellow, and the bed’s sheets had a cheerful floral pattern. A smooth wooden desk stood by a small window, and on it were a few notebooks, a small desk lamp, a scented candle.

“Did you tidy the room after your daughter disappeared?” Zoe asked.

“No,” Sophia said. “Nicole likes it organized.”

Tatum walked over to the far wall, where a small shelf hung, covered with figurines of turtles. They were different sizes and shapes, made of wood, glass, plastic, cloth. He picked one up, a handmade clay turtle.

“It’s Nicole’s collection,” Sophia explained. “She started collecting them when she was twelve.”

“Does Nicole have a boyfriend?” Zoe asked.

“No. She broke up with her boyfriend six months ago,” Sophia answered.

“Who was he?”

“A boy from school.”

“We talked to him,” Foster said. “He hadn’t seen Nicole in a while.”

Zoe glanced at Foster, raising her eyebrow doubtfully. “And no other boys? No one she dated? Not even once?”

“No. She would have told me,” the mother answered.

“Any new people in her life?”

“She always had a lot of friends, but I don’t think there is anyone new. She spends all day messaging them on the phone. It keeps pinging, driving me insane. I . . .” Her voice broke. Tatum was willing to bet the absence of the phone’s pinging had just occurred to her.

“Is she popular?” Zoe asked.

“She is. She’s very friendly and sweet. She has a knack for making friends.”

Zoe grilled her about Nicole’s habits—what she did during the day, whom she interacted with, whether she often returned home late at night. Tatum wandered around, examining the room, half listening to the woman’s answers. The missing girl’s presence was everywhere—pictures of Nicole on top of a dresser, a hairbrush with a bunch of hair bands wrapped around its handle discarded on a shelf, a pair of pink flip-flops in one of the corners. After a while Zoe stopped asking questions and just listened as Sophia told her stories about Nicole. How Nicole loved swimming. How she’d been afraid of monsters under the bed until she was six. The time Nicole had bought her a birthday present with all of her allowance.

Finally, she seemed to run out of steam. Tears were running down her cheeks, her words submerged in fear and worry.

Foster thanked her, and they stepped outside, closing the door behind them.

“Where did you spot the scuff marks?” Zoe asked.

Foster stepped to the edge of the path. “Over here.” He crouched. “It’s hard to see now, but we have a few photographs.”

Tatum’s phone rang. He checked the display. It was Sarah Lee. He stepped aside, letting Foster talk to Zoe, and answered the call.

“You found something?”

“That CNN video was live, right? So we know when the video was taken.”

“That’s right.” Tatum watched Foster and Zoe as they straightened. Foster pointed at the street, saying something.

“I contacted the mobile providers covering the area,” Sarah told him. “And asked for CDRs of users who browsed to the CNN live feed page around that time.”

Tatum digested this. It took him a few seconds to remember what CDR stood for—call detail records. When the man had browsed to CNN, the mobile company maintained a record of the activity, which had to include the domain name as well as the cell base stations that serviced the request. And that could be translated to an approximate location. Fortunately for them, this information was not protected by the Fourth Amendment and could be accessed by Sarah without a warrant.