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Two

Sunday, 12:30 p.m.

Our caller lives on El Medio Avenue, overlooking both Topanga State Park and Temescal Gateway Park. Sloan and I pay him a visit together, leaving the crime-scene techs and Sloan’s partner, Detective Carey, to finish processing the scene. Rosen also leaves, opting to go back to the office and finish some paperwork, and Frost will be heading off with the body soon, too. Every forensic pathologist is different, but an hour or so at the scene is plenty for most.

Sloan and I take my car, and I turn off Sunset onto El Medio Avenue. The incline starts immediately, and within less than half a mile we’re on the crest of a large hill. From the road, the houses seem like larger suburban blocks, and their impressive views are hidden behind their bulk. It’d be nice to have a state park in your backyard. Especially so close to downtown L.A.

“What do you think one of these would go for?”

Sloan lets out a whistle. “Dunno…not exactly in my budget.” She peers out the window for a second look. “You’d have to be talking five to ten million, maybe more.”

“Ouch.”

“Uh-huh.” She pauses, looking at the street numbers. “We’re almost there. Third house on the right.”

I pull into the curb outside number 922.

Sloan unbuckles her seat belt. “We’re looking for Mr. Heeler.”

The house is a gray weatherboard, with white easels and window frames. It’s set back from the road a little more than some of the other houses, with a large concrete driveway leading to a double garage under the main residence. We walk along the driveway, up the two porch steps and knock on the white door.

A man in his late fifties answers. “Yes?” With one word, one breath, the stench of stale alcohol hits me. Great.

“This is Agent Anderson, and I’m Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” We both show our IDs.

“Of course.” He gives them a cursory glance with bloodshot eyes. “I’m Andrew Heeler. Please come in.”

Heeler is wearing khaki pants, a black shirt and bare feet. His graying hair is short, accentuating his round face and dark brown eyes. He takes us past a staircase and a living room on the right, into a large kitchen and open-plan space that looks out onto a deck…and the park.

“Wow,” I say. “What a view.”

He stops and looks out the windows. “Yes. It’s magnificent.” He sighs. “Except when kids are fooling around down there.”

“The people you saw were young?” Sloan asks.

“I don’t know. I’m just assuming.” He turns around to us. “Tea, coffee?”

Sloan and I both accept the offer of a coffee.

“Take a seat if you like.” Heeler motions toward a large black leather couch.

Once we’re both sitting, Sloan asks Heeler how long he’s lived here.

“Over fifteen years now.”

We start off with idle chitchat, ready to move to the more serious questions as soon as is polite and strategic. There’s no reason why Mr. Heeler would be on edge, but it doesn’t do any harm to make sure he feels at ease despite the official presence.

Sloan leans back into the couch. “You married, Mr. Heeler? Kids?”

“Widowed.” He flicks the brewer on and comes over to sit opposite us. “And I’ve got one son who’s twenty-five.”

I eye the telescope on the deck. “You’re a star-gazer?”

“Sometimes, yes. Although it only tends to be a couple of times a month these days. Just laziness, I guess.”

I smile. “Is that what you were doing last night?”

A few beats of silence go by before he responds. “Yeah.” He seems uncertain, like he’s trying to piece the events together. “I think it was around midnight…I went out to use the telescope, but then the lights in the park caught my attention.”

“Can you take us through exactly what you saw, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks.

“Um.” He stares out the window. “I went out to have a look at the stars—” he points toward the balcony “—and was adjusting my telescope’s position when I saw something out the corner of my eye.” He waves his left hand off to the side. “There were about six or seven lights.” Another pause. “Looked like torches. They were moving. I went to take a closer look, but it was too dark, despite the full moon. All I could see were lights and shapes…figures.”

“Your telescope looks pretty powerful, Mr. Heeler,” I say. “You couldn’t see any more detail?” The telescope is very thick, and my understanding is that the larger the diameter the more magnification.

“Oh, I wasn’t looking with my telescope. It’s far too powerful for that. I got out my binoculars.” He moves back into the kitchen. “I can’t believe…” He pauses midsentence, a cupboard door open and one coffee mug in his hand. “I can’t believe a girl was murdered.” He shakes his head and gets another two coffee cups out. “I thought it was kids, fooling around. I never thought…”

“Of course, Mr. Heeler. We understand.”

We wait in silence for a few minutes while he organizes the coffee and then heads back over to us.

Sloan takes the cup he hands her. “So could you see if the figures were male or female?”

He hands me my coffee. “No. Too dark, too far away.” He starts to sit down but then bounces back up. “Sorry, cream and sugar?”

“Cream for me,” I reply.

“Both for me.”

He places his cup on the coffee table and grabs a bowl of sugar and some milk from the kitchen, putting them both out on the table. “Where was I?”

Sloan empties a heaped teaspoon into her coffee and stirs. “You couldn’t see if the figures were male or female. It was too dark, too far away.”

“Ah, yes.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I figured there was no point calling the police just for some kids playing around in the park. I gave up on the stars because of the cloud cover, but finished my drink on the deck before coming back inside to watch TV.”

“What were you drinking last night, Mr. Heeler?”

Sloan’s question seems to take him by surprise. Eventually he tells us it was vodka.

Sloan leaves it for the time being. “You told the park ranger that you saw a circle of lights?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up around quarter after two. When I was locking the balcony door I saw the lights. I actually think it was candles rather than torches the second time.”

Candles? A circle of candles is an instant, striking visual.

He stares at his coffee, mesmerized. “Although I was half asleep at that point.”

We have to ask ourselves the question a defense lawyer would ask Heeler if we put him on the stand—half asleep or in a drunken stupor?

He takes another sip of coffee. “This morning I started thinking about the lights and decided maybe I should call the park and let them know.” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t think it was serious. I thought maybe there’d be beer bottles or other trash that the rangers might want to clean up.”

Sloan gives him a nod. “Mind if we have a look from your deck?”

“Sure.”

The view is even more spectacular when we make our way out, with an expanse of trees and greenery stretching for miles. Just looking at the valley makes me take a deep breath—clean air in L.A. At least, it feels clean.

“That’s where I saw the lights.” Heeler points down, right about where I’d expect our crime scene to be from this angle. Maybe he wasn’t that drunk after all.

“Have you got those binoculars, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks. “I’d like to see what you saw.”

“Sure,” he says and heads inside.

Sloan leans on the deck railing, facing me. “What do you make of him?”

I wince. “Not exactly the most reliable witness.”

“Did he fall asleep on the couch or pass out?”

“He has got the spot about right, though.” I point to the area.

“True.” Sloan pauses. “If it was a circle of lights, what do you think that means? For the investigation?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m sure we’ve come to the same conclusions…some sort of a ritual or sacrifice. Could be that Sherry was in the center of that circle, dying or dead when Mr. Heeler saw the lights—candles or not.”

Sloan is silent but gives a small nod. I know she’s at least entertaining this possibility, otherwise she wouldn’t have requested a Bureau profiler.

A minute or so later, Heeler returns with the binoculars. He holds them out, not sure who to pass them to.

Sloan tips her head to one side. “You go.”

I take the binoculars and scan the terrain, looking for the crime scene. Within less than ten seconds I’ve found it, but I can see what Heeler means. While I can see there are people moving around and I’d be able to count them and even determine their gender, if it was dark that would be impossible. Even assuming they were holding torches or candles. “It’s a good view, a good vantage point, but in the dark…” I hand the binoculars to Sloan.

She focuses them on the scene. “I see what you mean. It was a full moon last night, but lots of cloud cover.”

Back inside, Sloan asks Heeler if he’s ever seen anything suspicious before.

He shakes his head. “Not like that. I know the park is closed from dusk to dawn, but people do get in. Occasionally I might hear something—people yelling, that sort of thing. I imagine it’s frequently underage drinkers…maybe teenagers looking to have sex?” He turns the last part into a question.

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Heeler,” Sloan answers. “The park rangers often find empty bottles, but mostly around the entrance, not this deep into the park. And they have also interrupted a few…passionate moments.” She drains the rest of her coffee. “I think that’s it.” She looks to me for confirmation.

I nod and we head for the door.

At the door, Sloan turns back to Heeler. “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“How much do you think you drank last night, Mr. Heeler?”

He looks at his feet and kicks the ground. “I did see something.”

“You admitted to being half asleep and under the influence. How can you be sure you saw a circle and candles last night?” Sloan’s pushing him, like a lawyer would.

Leaning one hand on the door frame he stares at the ground. “I guess…I guess I can’t be one hundred percent sure, can I?” It didn’t take much for Heeler to cave.

We both thank him for his time.

Back in the car, I start the engine. “Doesn’t look too good.”

Sloan shakes her head. “He’d be hopeless in court, and that’s if we buy his story.”

“He was obviously a little drunk last night, but he did pick the right spot.”

“Mmm…” Sloan’s not convinced. “His call did lead to the body, but I think a healthy amount of skepticism is warranted about the other details.”

Sloan may not believe Heeler, but I do. After all, I have the added benefit of last night’s dream. I have to assume I was Sherry, running away from multiple perps and I definitely saw lights and vampire fangs.

“Let’s say he’s right.” I pull the wheel hard and U-turn, heading back down El Medio Avenue toward Sunset Boulevard. I’d programmed the Taylors’ address into my navigation system before we left the park, so now I follow the directions to their Brentwood house. “He thought there were about seven or eight torches, so that could be the number of perps we’re dealing with. And that could tie in with this group, After Dark.”

“Do you think After Dark could be a cult?”

“Maybe. It’ll be interesting to see the dynamics. Is it a cult or just a group of like-minded individuals? Did the cops who worked the trespass case interview any of the other members besides the two they caught? Or get some other names, even?”

“They got the leader’s, one Anton Ward. Someone should have sent that stuff across to Rosen. You didn’t get it?”

“Sorry, yeah. I haven’t had a chance to look through it yet. It’s on the backseat.”

“The two offenders were Larry Davidson and Walter Riley of WestHo. They were fined for trespassing, but that was the end of it. The investigating officers flagged the possible wider vampire angle but felt that both Davidson and Riley were harmless, and there’s nothing illegal about ‘being’ a vampire. The two admitted to being part of a group called After Dark, run by Anton Ward, but stuck to their original story—that they were in the park alone.”

“Even though the ranger saw other people running off?”

Sloan nods. “Yup.”

“So they were protecting the group. Either of their own volition or under orders.”

“Yeah.” Sloan’s thoughtful. “A single leader makes it more likely it’s a cult, yes?”

“Not necessarily. While one of the characteristics of new religious movements is an enigmatic leader who has complete control over his followers, most everyday groups have some sort of leadership hierarchy. A school has a principal, a board of directors has a chairman and even a group of hobbyists will have one main person who directs the action.”

Sloan turns to me. “We’re hardly talking schools, corporations or hobbies here, Anderson.”

“I know. The cult angle is a definite possibility.”

Silence for a beat before Sloan says, “Even if After Dark is a cult, it doesn’t mean they’re involved in anything illegal, let alone murder.”

I stop at traffic lights on Sunset. “Point taken. And I have to admit I don’t know much about the vampire subculture, although I know it’s associated with the Goth culture.”

“Me, neither. Nightlife in L.A. is always interesting.” She smiles. “According to the files, Davidson and Riley had been to a Goth nightclub before they were arrested.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe we should check it out…check out their nightclub scene.” I stifle a smile, imagining Sloan and I dressed like we are now and flashing our badges at a Goth club.

Sloan smoothes down the fabric on her pants. “I know we’ve got the so-called fang marks, but I’m more interested in her love life as a starting point.”

Sloan’s going for the most common angle—the boyfriend or husband did it. She’s also not putting much faith in Heeler as an eyewitness, but she could be right about him.

“I agree we need to check out any boyfriends or exes, but I’d still like to know more about this scene. We could talk to the managers or bar staff at these clubs. See what they know about After Dark.” I pause, my mind jumping ahead to the evening. “Maybe even drop by tonight, when they’re setting up…”

Sloan’s nose crinkles. “Maybe. But like I said, I’m more interested in the men in Sherry’s life, not to mention building a timeline of her movements last night. What happened between 9:00 p.m., when she left her family home, and her entrance into Temescal Gateway Park?”

Sloan’s thinking of the case like most cops would—trace the victim’s last known movements. And while we do need to do that, my interest as a profiler focuses more on human behavior, including group dynamics and the lifestyle of a subculture our victim may have been involved in.

“What if Sherry Taylor was a Goth? Could be she was at one of the clubs herself last night.”

Sloan shakes her head. “Not if the family photos I saw this morning are anything to go by.”

“She could have been hiding it from her parents, or maybe it was recent.” I’m starting to feel like I’m flogging a dead horse, but my dream points toward multiple perps, not a boyfriend.

We sit in silence for a bit before I say, “The parents reported her missing this morning, right? Shortly before the ranger found her body?”

“Uh-huh. It was logged at eight this morning. An officer took the report over the phone, and issued an APB for Sherry and her car. But it would have been a few days before the report made its way to the Missing Persons Unit.”

I nod. The procedure for a missing persons case varies depending on the situation. If Sherry had been five years old or if there had been evidence of a struggle in her home, resources would have been thrown at the case immediately. But as a twenty-year-old woman, chances were that she simply stayed over at a friend’s or boyfriend’s house and didn’t tell her parents. Her name would have been in the system; but only if the parents were insistent enough would someone have checked the hospitals and police system this morning to make sure Sherry hadn’t been hospitalized or arrested. And then if Sherry still hadn’t turned up, the case would have been assigned to someone in the LAPD’s Missing Persons Unit within a couple of days. Their next move would have been to interview the parents and close friends, start making inquiries at her workplace and maybe on Wednesday or Thursday they would have started with credit card traces and phone records. Now, with Sherry dead, Sloan will start the ball rolling on all of those things, though, sadly, toward a different end than finding her.

The navigation system prompts me to take a right, and within a few minutes we’re pulling up at the Brentwood home of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. As we drive up to the gated entrance, the house is visible in the distance. It’s a large two-story home, bagged white with a distinctive Mediterranean feel, wood-stained window- and door-frames and an outside timber shutter on each window.

Sloan presses the buzzer at the gate and after only a few seconds a male voice answers.

“It’s Detective Sloan from LAPD again, sir.”

“Right…come on in.” The voice is distracted; I assume it’s Mr. Taylor’s.

A brick-paved driveway snakes toward the house, past beautifully landscaped gardens. We follow the driveway and park near the front door, opposite a small fountain. The water feature is blue-tiled, with white mosaic-style images of mermaids on the internal walls. Small umbrella palms line a path from the driveway to the front door.

We’re not even up the two steps when a man in his mid to late forties opens the door. He wears thick but trendy framed glasses, a red T-shirt and black jeans. His face is plagued with despair and I know instantly that I’m looking at Sherry’s father.

Sloan clears her throat. “Thanks for seeing me again, Mr. Taylor.”

He nods.

“This is Special Agent Anderson from the FBI.”

He tries to force a polite smile, but it comes out more like a grimace as he shakes our hands. “Come in.”

He leads the way through a foyer section of the house. I’ve changed back into my regular work shoes, and they make a loud clipping sound on the slate, the noise triggering a vision.

Sherry opens the front door, takes off a pair of high heels and tiptoes along the hallway.

The vision is probably an accurate insight of Sherry coming home late one night, or perhaps it was a regular Friday and Saturday night routine for her. Regardless, I doubt it’s of consequence to the case. It certainly doesn’t give me a sense of what might have happened to her last night.

The house is very light and mostly open—a staircase to the right, almost immediately at the entrance, and to the left the space is barely separated into rooms. From here I can see a living room, dining room and expansive kitchen. Mr. Taylor takes us through the first room, which seems like a formal living room or sitting room, through the dining room and into the kitchen. To the right of the kitchen is another living space, which opens up onto a large deck with double doors and a swimming pool. He takes a seat on one of the leather couches and we sit on the couch opposite him.

Sloan props on the edge of the couch. “Is your wife here, Mr. Taylor?”

“Um…yes. She’s upstairs…lying down.”

“It would be better if we could talk to you together.”

He rubs his hands up and down his thighs. “I don’t know if Mandy’s up to it, Detective.”

“Please…it is important. Would you mind asking her if she could come down? Even for a little while.” Sloan’s voice is both sympathetic and authoritative. She realizes it’s much more likely for a mother to know about a young woman’s comings and goings than a father.

Taylor nods in an absent manner and he heads up the stairs.

“Still in shock.” Sloan leans back on the couch.

“Yes.” I look around at a few family portraits. “Looks like there are two girls. Wonder where the other one is.”

“College age, so chances are…”

I nod. “I don’t know if we’re going to get anything useful out of them in this state.”

Sloan shrugs. “I’d like to get this moving sooner rather than later.” She looks at her watch. “And we’ve still got a few visits to get through today.”

Footsteps are audible coming down the stairs and we’re both silent.

Mr. and Mrs. Taylor enter arm in arm, although it’s obvious she’s leaning heavily on him. She’s dressed in expensive-looking casual wear that could double as gym gear. A common look in L.A. Black leggings show off her slender but muscular frame, accompanied by a halter-neck top and sweater. Her mass of red curls is pulled into a ponytail and a few stray curls hang at her face. A glance at her eyes tells me she’s had something to take the edge off the pain or to help her get closer to oblivion—perhaps Valium or she could have knocked back a few drinks.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Taylor says, “it’s Detective Sloan and…”

Sloan introduces me again, this time adding in my role in the investigation as a behavioral analyst.

“Behavioral analyst? A profiler, right?” Mr. Taylor leads his wife over to the couch opposite us.

“Yes, sir.”

They take a seat.

Mrs. Taylor turns blurry eyes our way. “So you’ll help catch the…the monster who did this to our baby girl?”

Sloan jumps in. “We’ve asked Agent Anderson to consult on the case. She will draft what’s called an offender profile and help us interrogate suspects. We’ll also use her expertise for our media strategy.”

“Media strategy?” Mr. Taylor seems confused.

The services a profiler offers law enforcement cover four areas—media strategy, offender profile, interrogation strategy and prosecution strategy. We may be asked to consult on all or just one of these areas.

“The way the media portrays the case may affect the killer’s behavior, and thus how we track him or her down,” I explain. “I’ll liaise with the media to help contain their reports as much as possible. Try to control how Sherry and her murder are reported to the public.”

Mrs. Taylor lets out a large sigh. “Can we just get this over with?” Her speech is slurred.

“I’m sorry. My wife’s just taken a sleeping pill.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Taylor. We understand.”

He nods, seemingly relieved that we’re not judging his wife for popping a tablet at lunchtime.

I smile at them both and try to gauge how much time we’ll get with Mrs. Taylor veering toward the incoherent. We should get at least a few minutes out of her, maybe ten.

“Can you tell us a bit about Sherry?”

He looks at a photo of her on the mantelpiece. “What do you want to know?”

“Did Sherry work?” I ask. According to Sloan there was no employer noted on the missing persons report but I’d like to confirm it with the Taylors. We need to talk to as many people who knew Sherry as possible, and place of employment is usually a good start.

“No. She was at UCLA. Drama.”

“An actress.” Sloan doesn’t seem surprised. Then again, in L.A. lots of people are hoping to become actresses, especially pretty young women like Sherry Taylor.

“That’s correct, yes. She has some talent, too.” Mr. Taylor has none of the usual parental bragging in his voice. He seems detached, more like he’s making a professional observation.

“You’re in the industry?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m the lead writer and producer on Stars Like Us.”

Impressive…I don’t watch much TV, but I know the half-hour sitcom is doing very well in the ratings and I see billboards for it everywhere.

“So Sherry grew up with it. I presume she’s already appeared on TV?” Sloan still hasn’t taken out her notebook. I doubt she’s relying on my notes so she must have a superb memory.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice floats. “Brian won’t let either of the girls act until they’ve finished college.” It’s hard to tell from Mrs. Taylor’s tone if she has any strong feelings about her husband’s rule. Perhaps there’s a slight exasperation in her voice.

“I’ve seen what acting does to children…adolescents. Especially girls. And that’s not what I wanted for Sherry or Misha.”

College isn’t exactly the most wholesome environment, either, but I keep my mouth shut. Mr. Taylor doesn’t strike me as particularly strict, certainly not authoritarian, so I’m guessing this was one of his few rules—something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bend on.

“She was only a couple of months away…from finishing college and being able to fulfill her dream.” Silent tears fall down Mrs. Taylor’s cheeks. Before the sleeping tablet they probably would have been hysterical tears but now they’re masked by medication and numbness. She’s been beaten—by life, by God, by whatever you believe in. Although I try not to, I can’t help but think of my mother. Even though I was nine years old, I don’t remember the day they told us that my brother John’s body had been found. It was a year after his disappearance and I already knew he was dead anyway…I saw it in a nightmare. But I have managed to block the death knock from my memory.

“What about Misha? How old is she?”

Sloan’s question brings me back to the present.

“She’s eighteen.” Mr. Taylor rests his hand on his wife’s knee. “There’s only nineteen months between the girls.” He stands up and takes the photo he looked at earlier from the mantelpiece. “This was taken at Christmas.” He hands it to Sloan.

The family sits around a table, with a turkey in the center. I also notice a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal in an ice bucket, and that Sherry has on full makeup and nail polish.

“Just the four of you?” I ask.

“Yes.” Mr. Taylor nods. “I’m an only child and my parents are both dead, and Mandy’s parents spend Thanksgiving with us and Christmas with Mandy’s brother in New York.”

I take another look at the photo. “Sherry lived here with you, correct?”

“Yes. She would have loved to live on campus, but I didn’t see the point…not when UCLA is a five-minute drive.”

“And Misha?” Sloan passes the photo back to Mr. Taylor.

“Misha’s studying music…in New York.” He stares at the photo.

“I see.”

“Have you told her yet?” Sloan asks softly.

The question brings another onslaught of tears from Mrs. Taylor, and this time not even the medication can control them. “I can’t…I can’t do it.”

“We can’t wait any longer, Mandy.” Mr. Taylor turns to us. “I was just about to call Misha when you arrived.”

“Without me?” Mrs. Taylor stands up and pulls at her hair with one hand. “How could you?”

“We have to tell her.” Taylor’s voice is soft.

Mrs. Taylor hesitates for a moment before sinking back into the couch and holding her head in her hands. “Maybe you’re right. She has to know, and Lord knows I can’t bring myself to say those words.”

We’re all silent for a few beats.

“It’s not going to be on the news or anything, is it?” Mr. Taylor gently places the photo back on the mantelpiece. “Misha can’t find out like that.”

Sloan shakes her head. “Not Sherry’s name, no. We won’t release those details until you’ve made a formal identification at the coroner’s office.” She pauses. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“No, I need to see her as soon as possible.” He’s still looking at the Christmas photo. “Need to see my baby to believe it’s really her.”

We nod, and Sloan says, “I understand.”

Silence again.

“Sherry…” I pause. “Was she outgoing? Shy?”

“More outgoing, I guess. She certainly had a lot of friends.”

“She was an extrovert.” Mrs. Taylor looks up. “She drew people to her and was loved by everyone. Sherry and her friends often spent time over here—I always opened our house to them.”

“Did she have a best friend? Someone she was particularly close to?”

“Desiree Jones. They’ve known each other since high school. Both charming, social girls.”

“We’d like her details. And the contact details of anyone else close to Sherry.”

Mrs. Taylor manages to stand up. “Of course. I’ll get my address book.” She strides out of the room, but I can tell the deliberate movement and poise take her full concentration.

When she returns, she reads out a few names and we take down the details.

“Anyone else? Perhaps that you don’t have contact details for?”

“I know all Sherry’s friends. Sherry and I are very close.”

I haven’t decided yet if Mandy Taylor is a more open, progressive mum, or if she’s one of those mums who live their lives through their children. Could be she had to be part of Sherry’s social life, almost think of Sherry’s friends as her friends.

“What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?” Sloan asks.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor fiddles with her address book, which now sits closed on her lap. “She dated Todd Fischer for three years, but they split up just before Christmas.”

Sloan leans on the couch’s arm. “She still in contact with him?”

“No. It was a clean break.”

“You know who broke it off?”

“She did. Told me it just didn’t feel right anymore.”

“Anyone new on the scene?” Sloan asks.

“No.”

“But she wouldn’t bring a new guy home to meet the folks. Not if she’d only been with him a few weeks,” Sloan says.

Mrs. Taylor’s eyes move slowly from Sloan to me. “Maybe not. But she would have told her mom.” She takes a few quick breaths, holding back tears. “I told the police officer when I reported her missing this morning that something was wrong, seriously wrong. My baby girl wouldn’t just not come home one night. But he didn’t take me seriously.” The tears come again.

“There was an APB put out for Sherry and her car. He certainly did take you seriously, Mrs. Taylor.” Sloan’s voice is soft.

Mr. Taylor looks at his wife, then back at Sloan. “Why weren’t you out there, looking for her?”

“We were, Mr. Taylor.” Sloan edges forward on the couch. “The APB meant that every LAPD officer on the street was on the lookout for Sherry and her car.”

While that’s true, in reality there would have been several APBs out during any one shift, and one for a missing twenty-year-old girl wouldn’t have taken priority. The LAPD would have been too busy with shootings, rapes, active arrest warrants, drugs and their normal urgent duties. In fact, the Taylors were lucky to get an APB at all. A twenty-year-old on a Friday or Saturday night with no evidence of foul play…no police department in the world was going to be genuinely concerned. And 99.9 times out of 100 they’d be right.