Chapter 29
THE DAY AFTER Conklin and I talked to Rachel at Yerba Buena Gardens, I found myself in the passenger seat of Cindy Thomas’s Hyundai sedan.
I didn’t have a good reason to take my city car all the way out to San Julio since there was nothing solid linking the missing girls in San Julio to my case in San Francisco, but I felt it was important to get more information about Eric Snaff.
Given my suspicions, I also didn’t want Cindy going out to see him by herself.
Cindy said, “Eric doesn’t seem like a psychopath.”
“Good psychopaths never do.”
“That is a great line. Can I include it in my book?” Then she pounded the steering wheel and said, “I’m so fired up to write this story. Who knows where it might lead?”
“You’re right. It’d be a shame if we found out Nicole just ran away and was safe somewhere. There’d be no real story there.”
Cindy frowned. “You know I’d be thrilled if Nicole turned up safe.
It doesn’t change that there are a lot of missing girls.
People don’t talk enough about these human-trafficking groups.
This is why I got into journalism in the first place.
It’s my way of trying to help people. I know being a cop is more directly helping people, but we can’t all wear a badge. ”
I ignored Cindy’s comment. I thought about Nicole Snaff. Had she left her quiet little town voluntarily or had she been lured out? I continued to wonder about her father. Was he involved in her disappearance? I really didn’t know the answer to that question. If he wasn’t, how was he coping?
Cindy swerved to get around a slow pickup truck, but in doing so she barely missed an elderly couple in a Cadillac.
State Route 24 ran from San Francisco all the way to Walnut Creek.
It was a busy freeway, and it tested my nerves to be in the passenger seat while Cindy seemed to concentrate on everything but her driving.
We passed Orinda and about ten minutes later were rolling into San Julio. I’d been here a couple of times over the years. There never seemed to be much to the smaller suburban community this far east of San Francisco.
Cindy pointed to a building and said, “That’s the youth center where Eric works. It’s also where I met Gina, who works there too. Maybe we’ll have time to talk to her today.”
I gazed out the window at the quiet suburban town.
For a moment, I pictured raising Julie here.
Less chaos. Fewer people. Lower crime. It sounded good for a few seconds until I started to think about everything I’d miss.
My job. My friends and neighbors. The constant variety that life in the city offered, with its multitudes of ethnicities, personalities, restaurants, and entertainment venues.
I thought about where my sister Cat lived, about an hour south of San Francisco in quaint little Half Moon Bay, and how quickly I always grew restless when visiting her there.
I was definitely not made to live in a small town.
We came to a housing development and Cindy slowed the car, then turned into Mountain View Acres.
The first thing I noticed was that there was no actual mountain view.
Then after a couple of blocks, I questioned the “acres” too.
Still, most of the houses we passed had reasonable yard space and looked well maintained.
Cindy pointed up the street and said, “That should be Eric’s house on the left, the one with the big tree in the front yard.”
The front door opened as soon as we pulled into the driveway, and Eric Snaff stepped onto the concrete porch. He waved at Cindy, who gave him a wave back.
I wondered if I was looking at a psychopath.