Chapter 8
The deputy behind the front desk at the Adirondack County Sheriff's Office was young, maybe twenty-five, with a crew cut and a pen he kept clicking while Ruby talked. She'd been talking for three minutes and he hadn't written anything down.
"So when did you last hear from her?" he asked.
"Last night. She was supposed to text me when she got to her shoot. She never did. I've called her probably thirty times. Goes straight to voicemail."
"And you're her..."
"Friend. Best friend."
He nodded slowly. "Ma'am, we can't file a missing person report based on a friend's concern unless there's evidence of foul play. She's eighteen. And it hasn't been twenty-four hours."
"It's been close to twenty-four hours."
"Close isn't twenty-four." He set the pen down. "Look, people go off the grid all the time. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she's with someone. If she doesn't turn up by tomorrow, have her family come in and we can get things started."
Ruby stood at the counter and felt the frustration of being young and female and talking to someone who had already decided she was overreacting.
She wanted to say that Fiona wasn't the type to disappear.
That Fiona texted back. That Fiona always texted back, even when she was busy, even when she was tired, even at two in the morning.
But she could see from his face that none of that would matter.
Fiona was legally an adult, and the clock hadn't run out yet.
"Fine," Ruby said. "Thanks for your help."
She pushed through the front entrance and stood on the sidewalk in the afternoon sun, trying to decide what to do next. The answer came to her the way bad ideas often do, which was quickly and with the feeling that it was the only option left.
Fiona's father lived in a single-story ranch house on the east side of town, a place that looked like it had been nice once and then someone had stopped caring.
The lawn needed mowing. A gutter hung loose over the garage.
A truck with a cracked windshield sat in the driveway next to a stack of firewood that had been there long enough to go gray.
Ruby knocked. She heard movement inside, a television, footsteps, and then the door opened. Mark Spence stood there in a stained undershirt and sweatpants, holding a can of beer at two in the afternoon, looking at her the way you look at someone selling something you don't want.
"Mr. Spence, I'm Ruby. Fiona's friend."
"I know who you are."
"Have you heard from Fiona? She was supposed to text me last night and she never did. I can't reach her."
He took a sip of the beer. "She does what she wants. Probably over at her boyfriend's."
"I already called Ethan. He hasn't heard from her either."
"Then I don't know what to tell you."
"She had a modeling shoot last night. She was driving to Elizabethtown. She never showed up. Doesn't that worry you?"
Something flickered across his face, but it wasn't concern. It was irritation.
"Fiona is eighteen," he said. "She comes and goes. When she wants to talk to me, she talks to me. When she doesn't, she doesn't. That's how it works."
"But what if something happened to her?"
"Then I'm sure someone will let me know." He started to close the door.
"Mr. Spence..."
The door shut. Ruby stood on the porch and stared at it. The television resumed on the other side, louder than before, as if he'd turned it up to fill the space where his daughter's name had been.
McKenzie was driving and telling a story about a date that had gone sideways when Callie's phone rang. She glanced at the screen and held up a finger.
"Thorne," she answered.
"You left your case file at my house." Noah's voice was even, conversational.
"Did I? Huh. Must have forgotten it."
"I left a message."
"I saw that. Was going to reply but I've been busy trying to track down the Kara Ellison file."
"Well, I'm sure it will show up," Noah said.
A pause. "Anyway, thoughts on the Danvers case?"
She heard him chuckle on the other end.
"I didn't look. I'm sidelined, right?"
"Sure." Callie glanced at McKenzie, who was pretending not to listen. She knew Noah was lying. He would have gone through that file cover to cover the minute she walked out the door.
"Anyway," Noah continued. "I dropped the file off at the office."
There was dead silence on the line. Callie waited. She could practically hear him thinking.
"Did they find out if the rag in the exhaust belonged to Brooke?” Noah asked.
"What?"
“Two weeks ago when they found her abandoned car. There was a rag found in the exhaust pipe."
"Still looking into it."
"And the lack of broken nails, or redness around her wrists?"
"I don't follow."
"If she was abducted, he would have had to restrain her. No ligature marks on the ankles or wrists."
“Maybe she was drugged. We won't know until toxicology comes back. Might have been the same with Kara Ellison."
"Without her body that's hard to know."
"But there is a connection. The jacket. Kara's college ID,” Callie said.
"Or the perp wants to make it look that way."
"No. Why would someone do that?"
"Serial killers often want to boost their body count.
Especially on nationwide unsolved cases.
Kara was seen on surveillance before she went missing wearing that coat.
It wouldn't take much to track down the brand and make, buy one.
Create a fake college ID. Happens all the time on campuses.
And suddenly our dead girl is wearing a missing girl's clothing with her ID. Same road they both went missing on."
Callie processed that. McKenzie had given up pretending and was openly listening now.
"Well, I'm sure we can rule that theory out when we check DNA on the coat and the ID against the blood from the knife.
That is if it is still in evidence. What we do know is that Brooke was last seen on her way to a modeling gig. "
"Oh yeah? Through who?"
"Possibly through Strutz Agency. We’re heading there now.”
"Good luck," Noah said, and the line went dead.
Callie pocketed her phone and stared through the windshield. McKenzie waited a beat.
"So he definitely looked at the file," McKenzie said.
"Obviously."
The Strutz Agency occupied the second floor of a narrow building on the main street in Elizabethtown, below apartments that had been there since the town was founded. There was no sign on the street, just a brass number on a door between two storefronts and a steep set of stairs behind it.
McKenzie knocked. The door opened and Samuel Bridger stood on the other side.
He was mid-thirties, lean, with symmetrical features and careful grooming.
He looked like he'd spent time on the other side of a camera before switching to this side of the business.
He wore a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and a watch that caught the light.
"We're closed," he said.
McKenzie held up his badge. "Detective McKenzie. This is Deputy Thorne. We have some questions about one of your models. Brooke Danvers."
Samuel's expression shifted. Not alarm. Something more careful. He stepped aside and let them in.
They climbed a long flight of stairs that opened into a studio space with high ceilings and exposed brick.
The walls were covered with photographs.
Headshots, portfolio shots, editorial layouts.
Young women from every angle, in every kind of light, ranging in age from what appeared to be thirteen to early thirties.
Callie scanned them as she walked and made a mental note of how young some of the faces were.
“They all seem so young,” McKenzie said.
Samuel kept moving, leading them through the gallery toward a desk at the far end. He talked as he walked. "What can I say, actors start young. We get these kids gigs in magazines, commercials, music videos, TV and film. You name it, we do it."
They followed him past another wall of portraits.
Callie's eyes caught on one and she stopped.
Brooke Danvers. Smiling, hair down, lit from the left in soft gold.
It was the second time Callie had seen her face.
The first had been at the parents' house earlier that morning, a framed photo on the mantel.
Both times the girl had been beautiful and alive.
What they'd found in Heaven Hill Trails had been neither.
"So how does it all work?" McKenzie asked, settling into a chair across from Samuel's desk.
"Each girl creates a portfolio. Photographers looking to expand their body of work will often offer free photo sessions. That gives them something we can show to other agencies, and then we arrange paid bookings from there."
"They all get paid?"
"Some of it is pro bono."
"But even on those pro bono jobs, I'm sure you're still getting paid," McKenzie said. "Right?"
"It's a business, Detective. Some like it, some don't. The turnover is high because the pressure is high."
"Sounds like what every thirteen-year-old kid wants," Callie remarked, scanning the photos on the wall. "Pressure."
Samuel didn't respond to that. He straightened a stack of papers on his desk and waited.
"So when did you last see Brooke?" McKenzie asked.
"About seventeen days ago. She was excited about some upcoming shoot."
"With who?"
"One of our local photographers. Garrett Finch, based in Keene. We use him for a lot of the girls." He pulled a thick binder from a shelf behind him and opened it on the desk. Portfolio shots, all with the same clean aesthetic. Different girls, same lighting, same polished look. "That's his work."
"They ever do any other work?" Callie asked. "Or is it strictly through your agency?"
"If you mean modeling, it's contractual based. But I don't restrict them from exploring other avenues."
"Like?"
"Geez. I don't know. Working independently with photographers. Taking on other jobs."
"You know if Brooke worked anywhere else?"
"I would have thought her parents knew that."
"Seems they didn't even know about your agency."
"Then how did you know to come knocking?"
"Google. Surprising what you can find with a name," Callie said.
Samuel breathed out a long breath and leaned back in his chair. "Look, I give these girls a way to have fun and make some money. Some take it seriously, others just do it as a hobby."
"So how did Brooke find out about you? She just waltz in off the street?"
"Referred."
"By who?"
"White Stone Deli."
"White Stone Deli?" Callie cocked her head. "That café and restaurant run by the Three Pillar Community?"
"That's the one."
"But that's a religious community. I can't imagine they'd agree with modeling. What with their views on modesty and separation from worldly vanities."
"They didn't. Someone put up one of our marketing flyers in their shop.
Took them a few weeks to realize it. I ended up having quite the conversation with the owner.
Tabitha Smith." He paused. "Strangely enough, she was okay with it as long as we did some of the marketing for them and let others know about their job opportunities.
" He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a flyer, handing it across.
"Like I said, many of our girls like to keep their options open for work.
The deli also offers boarding for some who buy into whatever it is they believe. "
"Did Brooke?"
"Not that I know of. But she worked at the deli."
"And Kara Ellison? That name ring any bells?"
Samuel shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know anyone by that name."
"Okay. Thank you." McKenzie stood and buttoned his jacket.
They left the way they'd come, back down the steep stairs and out onto the street. The afternoon was warm and the sidewalk was quiet. McKenzie slid his sunglasses on and glanced at Callie.
"Garrett Finch," he said.
"And Tabitha Smith," Callie added. "White Stone Deli first. It's closer."
The White Stone Deli sat at the end of a quiet block in Elizabethtown, identifiable by a hand-painted sign above the entrance and window boxes filled with herbs.
The building was old, refurbished with care.
Inside, the air smelled of fresh bread and yerba mate.
Long wooden tables ran the length of the room, communal style, and the walls were lined with handmade shelves displaying jars of honey, preserves, and dried tea blends.
A chalkboard menu listed sandwiches, soups, and baked goods at prices that were almost aggressively reasonable.
A woman in a long linen dress and a headscarf stood behind the counter, arranging loaves on a wooden board. She was in her fifties, thin-faced, with calm eyes and an unhurried manner. She didn’t live by the same clock as the rest of the world.
"Tabitha Smith?" McKenzie asked, showing his badge.
"That's me." She set down the loaf she was holding and wiped her hands on a cloth. "What can I do for you?"
"We're looking into the disappearance of a young woman named Brooke Danvers. We understand she may have worked here."
McKenzie placed a photograph in front of her. Tabitha picked it up and studied it for a long moment, then set it back down.
"I've never seen her before."
Callie glanced at McKenzie. "Strutz Agency says she worked here."
Tabitha picked up the photo again and looked at it more carefully, tilting it toward the light from the window.
"We get a lot of people coming through. She might have interviewed for a position.
But I would remember if she'd actually worked here.
" She handed the photo back. "No. I'm sorry. I can't help you."
"What about Kara Ellison?" Callie asked.
"I don't know that name either."
"Do you keep employment records? Applications?"
"We do. But our community values privacy. I'd need to speak with our elders before sharing anything."
McKenzie took a card from his jacket pocket and placed it on the counter. "We'd appreciate it if you'd do that soon. This is a murder investigation, Ms. Smith."
Tabitha looked at the card but didn't pick it up. "I understand. I'll speak with them today."
They walked back to the cruiser in silence. McKenzie started the engine and sat there for a moment, both hands on the wheel, not pulling out.
"She's lying," Callie said.
"Maybe."
"Strutz says Brooke worked there. Tabitha says she's never seen her. Somebody's wrong."
"Or somebody's covering." McKenzie put the cruiser in gear and pulled away from the curb.
Callie made a quick phone call to Finch. She got his answering machine. “I am out of the office for the day, leave a message and I will be in touch.”
She left a message then hung up.
"Garrett Finch tomorrow?” McKenzie asked.
"First thing."
Callie settled back in her seat and watched the town slide past. Three names in one afternoon. Samuel Bridger. Tabitha Smith. Garrett Finch. Three doors, and behind each one someone who knew more than they were saying.