“She’s been begging for a phone since eighth grade. Come to think of it, she hasn’t mentioned it of late. How’d she even pay for it? And don’t kids need a parent or something to sign a contract? I just don’t understand this.”
Morhart prided himself on the quality of his witness interviews, but this woman had a way of wresting a conversation from him.
“Joann, that’s what I’m trying to explain right now. The number Becca was using comes back to a prepaid cell phone. Do you know what that is?”
Joann shook her head.
“There’s no billing plan or credit cards or contracts necessary. Just any form of payment for prepaid minutes. The phone Becca had was purchased two months ago, with cash, at a Sears in Lynchburg, Virginia.”
“Lynchburg? I’ve never heard of that. Becca certainly wasn’t
“That’s what I figured. Now maybe she bought it from someone else, but that’s going to be real hard to track. Our best shot is to look at the call histories.”
Joann’s face brightened. “Of course. This is great. Can you do that thing I’ve read about where you track the phone’s signal, like a GPS?”
“Unfortunately, Becca hasn’t used her phone since Sunday. Now, wait, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” he said when her expression fell. “She might have turned it off to save the battery. Or she could have lost it. What I want to focus on are the calls she made prior to Sunday night. Not too many, really. Mostly she was using it to text with friends. I guess kids prefer that nowadays. But she did have several calls to a number I’ve tracked to a church based out of Oklahoma. The Redemption of Christ Church? That ring a bell?”
“No. Becca isn’t religious. Like, not at
“No recent curiosity about it? Or some change in her demeanor to suggest a conversion of some sort?”
“Well, you know she’d been having a rough patch over the last year or so, and she did seem to have turned that around. But I chalked it up to the usual ups and downs of teenage life. She had some new friends at school, that sort of thing, but a sudden embrace of Jesus? I don’t think so. Becca thought Lady Gaga was too mainstream. Does that sound like your redemption church?”
He gave her a smile. It was the first time he’d heard her allow herself some humor. “Definitely not. Don’t worry. I’ll be contacting them about the phone calls, but wanted to get the lay of the land from you first.”
“I appreciate that.”
“There’s something else about the phone, Joann. And this is undoubtedly going to be hard for you to hear. But Becca was involved in some flirtatious texting activity with one of the boys at school.” He broke the news to her. The texts. The nude photo. The retaliation from Ashleigh. All of it.
Joann wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry. Just the thought of her going through all that alone. I forgot how horrible teenagers can be, you know? It’s like you don’t want to believe your own child could be subjected to that abuse, so you repress the pain they can cause. These bullies, could they have done something to Becca?”
“I’ve accounted for both Dan and Ashleigh’s whereabouts that entire day, so, no, I don’t believe they’re directly responsible for her being missing right now. But to be honest, Miss Stevenson, it does raise the question of whether Becca may have left for a while to remove herself from the situation at school.” He held up a palm. “I’m just raising the possibility, because I know you want me to be honest with you. But I made you a promise that I would not stop looking for Becca, no matter what. And I plan to keep that promise, so please don’t make me feel like I can’t discuss what I need to discuss in order to do that.”
She took a deep breath and pursed her lips. “All right. So you’re saying maybe the problems at school just got to be too much?”
“You’ve always said that Becca leaving on her own was the best-case scenario, right? So, in a way, these problems at school might be seen as good news from that perspective. It at least gives her a reason for going.”
“Other than me. Sorry,” she said, obviously regretting the impulsive comment. “It’s stupid, but I keep wondering, What if she ran away because I had someone in our house that night? Maybe she came home from Sophie’s and realized Mark was here. That never should’ve happened, and I didn’t even have the guts to talk to her about it first. Maybe she wanted to teach me a lesson-”
“Stop. That’s not right.”
“I just can’t get the thought out of my head. Mark… well, he wouldn’t even hear me out on it. I think this has all been too much for him. If I could just let Becca know that he’s gone. He won’t be back here again. Maybe then she’d come home.”
“Just stop, Joann. You’re wrong on that, okay? You’ve got to trust me, but you’re wrong.”
“How do you know?”
He sighed as his own words about honesty rang in his ears. “I asked Sophie how your daughter felt about Mark. You’ve got to understand, in a situation like that, any man who’s close to the family-”
“I’ve got it.”
“In any event, Sophie told me Becca was happy for you.”
“But, still, the shock of finding him here. At night.”
“I don’t think it would have been a shock, okay? I think Sophie’s exact words were, ‘Becca was psyched that her mom was finally getting laid.’ Sorry. Oh, God, awkward.” She was smiling again, and her cheeks had flushed from something other than sobbing. “So, all righty then, I’m going to find out who at Redemption of Christ Church has been calling Becca.”
“You’ll be able to do that? Churches aren’t private from the law or something?”
“This isn’t the Vatican we’re talking about here. Seems like a pretty small organization. Figured I’d start with the pastor himself. Hopefully George Hardy’s a good enough Christian to help us out.”
“George Hardy?”
“Yeah, looks like he started the church himself. A real Bible Belter, from what I read online.”
“Detective, I’m not sure what this means, but I know a man named George Hardy. Or at least I used to.” The color that had been in her cheeks had been replaced by sheets of white. “George Hardy is Becca’s father.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
H ank Beckman was only forty-eight years old, but there were days when he felt old as dirt. The creeping reminders of the ever-present passage of time certainly didn’t help: that little potbelly that materialized a few years back without any explanation, each move of the pin to a lighter notch on the weight machines at the gym, the pain he’d developed in his side last week when he’d bent over for the newspaper a bit too early in the morning.
But not all indications of age were physiological. He’d joined the bureau when he was twenty-nine years old, meaning he’d be eligible for retirement at fifty. In many professions, a man of his age might be hitting his stride. But law enforcement was a young man’s-no, it was a young
Today’s work, however, could not be delegated. He had lost Travis Larson. He needed to find him.
Hank had last seen the man yesterday morning, parking the stolen BMW on Washington Street. After work, he’d picked up a Subway sandwich to go and headed directly to the Newark apartment complex. No lights on at home. No BMW in the lot. He’d stayed on the place until finally risking a walk up to the man’s landing. The Subway buy- one-get-one coupon he slipped halfway under the front door had still been there this morning and remained there again when he’d found time between field interviews for a drop-by.
No Larson. No BMW.
If Larson wasn’t home, Hank would start from his last known location. He had pulled up Google Maps on his computer, then zoomed in to the few blocks that divided the West Village from the Meatpacking District. From there, he dragged the orange figure of a man onto the map to see the location from street-level photographic view.
