Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

I nod. “Her mamm and datt told me Annie has some English friends. Did she ever talk about them?”

The girl steps away from me, as if the act of distancing herself will make me and my questions go away. “I don’t know anything about that.”

I tilt my head to make eye contact. “Are you sure?”

She begins picking berries at a frantic pace, pulling off leaves and small branches and throwing them into the bag.

“You’re not in any trouble,” I tell her. “Neither is Annie. We just want to find her. Her parents are worried.” I pick a few berries and drop them into her bag.

The words seem to get through to her. She lowers her hand and gives me her full attention. “She has too many English friends. She’s been riding in their cars. Smoking. You know, Englischer kind of things. I told her it was against the Ordnung, but . . .”

I nod. “Sometimes young people do things. They make mistakes.”

For the first time, she looks at me as if I might not be the enemy.

I’m aware of Tomasetti in the Tahoe a few yards away, waiting, watching us. “Did Annie ever mention a boyfriend?”

She moves a branch aside and pulls off a big purple berry. “Ja.”

“Do you know his name?”

She stops what she’s doing and looks at me. I see in her eyes a tangle of misery and confusion and the terrible weight of a fear she doesn’t understand—all of it tempered by the hope that her friend is okay. “She asked me not to tell.”

“We think Annie could be in danger.” I wait, but she doesn’t respond, so I add, “Honey, you’re not in any trouble. Okay? We just want to find her. If you know something, please tell me.”

Her brows go together and for the first time I get a glimpse of the full scope of the war waging within her: the need to be loyal to her friend; the tenet to remain separate from me; the need to tell what she knows because Annie could be in danger. “His name is Justin Treece,” she says finally.

“Thank you.” I pull out my pad and write down the name. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find her?”

She bites her lip. “Annie has a phone,” she blurts. “I saw her talking on it.”

“A cell phone?”

She nods. “I’m scared for her.”

“Why?”

“I just am.”

I reach out to touch her, to reassure her and thank her for her help, but she snatches up her bag and pushes past the bushes with such speed that I hear the stickers snag on her dress. She runs toward the house without looking back.

I watch until she disappears around the side of the house, and then I slide into the Tahoe and tell Tomasetti what I’ve learned. “Why are the parents always the last to know?” he growls.

“Probably because they don’t ask enough questions.”

“Or maybe some teenagers are pathological liars.”

“Such a cynic.” I tsk. “You should try having a little more faith in our youth.”

“I could, but there’s this pesky little detail called reality.” He’s already got his phone to his ear, calling Goddard. “We got a name,” he says without preamble. “Justin Treece.” Tomasetti’s face darkens and he scowls. “Shit. You got an address on him?” He listens for a moment and ends the call.

“That didn’t sound good,” I say.

Tomasetti drops his phone onto the console and puts the Tahoe in gear. “Treece did a year in Mansfield for beating the hell out of his mother.”

CHAPTER 6

Justin Treece lives with his parents in a run-down frame house on the outskirts of Buck Creek. The neighborhood is a downtrodden purlieu of postage stamp–size houses with ramshackle front porches and yards with grass trampled to dirt. Several houses are vacant, the windows either boarded up with plywood or open to the elements. The roof of the house next to the Treece place is fire-damaged; a hole the size of a tractor tire reveals blackened rafters and pink puffs of insulation.

“Damn, looks like Cleveland,” Tomasetti says as we idle past.

“Welcome to the other side of the tracks,” I mutter.

A beat-up Toyota pickup truck with oversize tires sits in the driveway next to an old Ford Thunderbird. “Looks like someone’s home.”

In front of us, Goddard’s cruiser pulls over to the curb two houses down from the Treece place, and we park behind him. Tomasetti and I meet him on the sidewalk.

“Vehicles belong to the parents,” the sheriff tells us. “Trina drives the Thunderbird. Jack drives the Toyota.”

“What about the kid?” Tomasetti asks.

“Last time I stopped him, he was in an old Plymouth Duster. Him and his old man tinker with cars, so it could be in the garage out back.”

“Exactly how bad is this kid?” I ask.

“He’s only got that one conviction.” Goddard shakes his head. “But it is a doozy. To tell you the truth, I think that little bastard is on his way. In ten years, he’ll be in the major league.”

“Or in prison,” Tomasetti puts in.

Goddard motions toward the house. “The whole lot of them are regulars with the department. Domestic stuff, mostly. Parents get drunk and beat the shit out of each other. Kids run wild. It’s sad is what it is.”

Having been a patrol officer in Columbus for a number of years, I’m all too familiar with those kinds of scenarios. It’s a sad and seemingly hopeless cycle, especially for the kids. Too many of them become victims of their environment and end up like their parents—or worse.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if this kid is involved with this missing girl,” Goddard tells us. “He’s got a hot head and a big mouth.”

“Bad combination,” I say.

“They armed?” Tomasetti asks.

“We searched the place once a few months back and didn’t find anything. But nothing would surprise me when it comes to this bunch.” Goddard divides his attention between the two of us. “So are you guys packing, or what?”

“Never leave home without it,” Tomasetti replies.

I open my jacket just far enough for him to see the leather shoulder holster where I keep my .22 mini- Magnum.

“Well, lock and load, people.” He motions toward the house. “Let’s go see what Romeo has to say.”

We take a sidewalk that’s buckled from tree roots and riddled with cracks. A tumbling chain-link fence encircles the front yard. I glance between the close-set houses and see a tiny backyard that’s littered with old tires. Beyond, a detached garage with peeling yellow paint and a single broken window separates the yard from the alley.

“Light on in the garage,” I say.

“Kid hangs out there a lot. Listens to that weird-shit music loud enough to bust your fuckin’ ear drums.”

“Do the parents work?” Tomasetti asks as we take the concrete steps to the front door.

Goddard nods. “Jack Treece is a mechanic at the filling station in town. He’s good, from what I hear. Probably where the kid got the knack. Trina works down at the bowling alley. Tends bar most nights.”

“What about Justin?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone around here would hire him to tell you the truth. He’s got a rep. Most people steer clear.”

We reach the front door. A few feet away, a window-unit air conditioner belches water onto the concrete.