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“To be honest, it didn’t affect us much. Other than we all had to talk to the police about a girl we’d served for maybe an hour out of our lives. I feel bad she’s missing, but I don’t think it caused much of a stir here. It wasn’t like she was a regular or anything.”

  “Did you know any of the girls she was with? I guess it was a girls’ night out.”

  Jackson finished with the glasses and picked up the empty rack and set it on the bar. He leaned on the bar. “No,” he said. “The police showed us photos of the girls she was with, and I didn’t recognize any of them. We have dancing here on the weekends, and it gets really packed. Seriously: no way I would recognize those girls if I saw them again. They start to all look the same.”

  Madison didn’t care for clubbing, so she tended to agree with him. The girls did all start to look the same, which she figured the girls would consider a success: uniformity, lack of originality, must all look the same to fit in.

  “Is anyone else still working here who worked here then?”

  “Actually, no. We had a change of ownership, and they were like out with the old and in with the new. They kept me on because otherwise no one would know how to run the place.”

  “Okay, well, thank you,” Madison said. “If you think of anything else, can you give me a call?” Madison handed him one of her cards.

  “Sure, no problem.” He walked into the back, and Madison walked out of the bar into the bright sunshine. She scrambled for her sunglasses. It was the middle of the day on a Friday and the streets were filling up with business-lunch-goers and vacationers enjoying beautiful San Diego. Watching the frivolity increased Madison’s feelings of discouragement. For some reason it made her think of day drinking: wasting her life away while the rest of the world was being productive.

  Well, she’d had to try. And she’d tried. Since she had nothing to lose at this point, she thought she might drop in on Elissa’s boyfriend and see what he had to say. She seemed to recall that he lived nearby.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Frank Bronson lived in the Golden Hill section of San Diego. A historic section of San Diego, Golden Hill had nineteenth-century homes that had been gentrified and nineteenth-century homes that were in disrepair; it just depended on which part of Golden Hill you lived in. Madison loved this part of town because she loved historic houses. In addition to being originally connected to downtown by a streetcar system put in for the Panama-California Exposition of 1915, Golden Hill was within walking distance of the bar where Elissa had last been seen alive. This last part was not lost on Madison. If Frank was a viable suspect, he could have quickly walked or driven to the bar and picked up Elissa.

  He lived in a duplex on 23rd near E Street. Madison had learned of his name from the podcast and had used her PI website to find his address. It was not the most run-down section of Golden Hill, but it certainly wasn’t gentrified.

  Out of habit, she parked her car a block away so that it wouldn’t be seen from his window. She walked down the street and kept her eye on his front door. There was a porch with a rocking chair on it that had holes in the wicker back and a broken arm. There was a driveway next to the front door; in it was parked an older-model Mitsubishi that had been tricked out and painted a bright red. Madison memorized the license plate just in case. You never knew what might be useful later. The walkway up to the front door had gravel and weeds on either side of it. She knocked on the door, stepped back three steps, and waited.

  Frank Bronson opened the door. She had seen his photo in a newspaper clipping online. He was wearing khaki pants with grease stains on them and a white tank top.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  He was about twenty-five, with long dark hair slicked back either with product or with dirt. He looked like he’d been asleep when Madison knocked. He did not look like the kind of guy who would answer questions about his missing girlfriend to a female PI who happened to knock on his door. Asking them would result in the door being slammed in her face, and she’d had enough of that today. Madison had to make a quick decision about how to proceed.

  “Hi. I’m a reporter with the San Diego Star,” Madison said, inventing the name of a newspaper. As a PI, Madison was licensed to pretend to be other people; the only rule was that she couldn’t pretend to work for an actual company. For Frank, she put on her dumb-blonde persona. She made all of her sentences go up on the end as if she were asking a question. She raised the timbre of her voice a bit, while making it slightly scratchy. She smiled pretty. She gazed into his eyes as if she were stunned to meet someone so interesting and intelligent, someone so much smarter than stupid little her. It wasn’t being sexual; Madison didn’t care for that kind of strategy. It was just being dumb so that a guy would underestimate her.

  “So?”

  “So, I was just wondering what you thought about Elissa’s phone being found?”

  Frank’s face went pale. His mouth closed into a thin line. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “No, seriously, like I swear to God, it was.” Then she giggled. “Like my dad is a cop, and he told me. He told me not to tell anyone, but I’m trying to make it as a serious journalist, you know? So I thought oh my God I have to go talk to her boyfriend and see what he thinks. I mean, maybe he knows something and then like my boss at the newspaper will finally understand that I’m like a totally serious journalist, like you know?”

  Frank had been thinking while Madison was babbling. He’d found his voice and his footing. “I’m glad they found it. Maybe it will help find her. We all want her to be found and brought home safely. You can tell everyone that.” He cleared his throat and ran his hand over his hair to neaten it. He pulled on the bottom of his T-shirt and tucked it into his grease-stained pants. He pulled his phone—a Motorola flip phone—out of his pants and checked the time.

  “That’s so cool of you,” Madison said. “I will totally put that in my article.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. I’ve cooperated fully with the police, and I will continue to do so.” This sounded completely rehearsed to Madison.

  “What do you think they’ll find in the black box?” she asked.

  Frank stared at Madison. “In the what?”

  Madison was playing craps. She was in Vegas, and she was betting it all on her roll of the dice. She would either win big or lose big. No going back now.

  “The black box. You know, the iPhone 7 has a black box, like a cockpit in an airplane. It records the last phone call made on the phone. It’s like so cool! Only the police can access it though, with a warrant. So the cops are doing that with Elissa’s phone. As soon as Apple gets the warrant, they’ll release the recording to the cops of the last phone call Elissa made—and everything that was said. I wonder what her last phone call was, don’t you? Like, did she have a fight or did she ask someone to pick her up or did she arrange to meet someone? It’s so exciting!”

  Frank glanced past Madison at the street behind her. There were sweat drops on his forehead, and one hair had flopped down and was sticking to it. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times and there was a smacking sound; his mouth was really dry.

  “We all want her found,” Frank said robotically. “She means a lot to us. I will continue to cooperate with the police.” And then he shut the door in Madison’s face.

  “Well,” Madison said as she turned to walk down the path. “That oughta do it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Madison started driving to meet Melissa, the woman who wanted Madison to follow her husband. If she found parking quickly she would be on time; otherwise, she was going to be a little bit late.

  She used the buttons on her steering wheel to engage the Sync system on her Ford Explorer to call Tom.

  “Are you calling to tell me you have a crush on my friend?”

  Madison’s mind was so far past her conversation with Ken that morning that she almost didn’t know what Tom was talking about. Then she remembered.

  “Oh! Ummmm, no, we had a conversation about some
help he needs with the Rescue Mission. I managed to have a conversation with a man without falling in love with him. Shocking, I know.”

  Tom laughed. “Sorry, it just happens a lot with that guy. He has a way with the ladies.”

  “Well, a guy who spends his spare time helping the underserved community is pretty attractive. You should try it.”

  “Yeah, because all I do is help the ‘overserved’ community, is that it?”

  “Nevermind. I need to tell you something. I did something. Don’t be mad.”

  Tom sighed. “Why do I feel like I need to buy stock in Pepto-Bismol every time I get a phone call from you? What did you do this time?”

  “I had a conversation with Elissa Alvarez’s boyfriend, Frank Bronson,” Madison said. “That is, I went to see him and I talked to him.” There was silence. “Tom?”

  Tom sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “What did you say to him?”

  “Can I remind you that as a licensed private investigator I am allowed to interview witnesses and suspects?”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t. I wish you wouldn’t, but I didn’t say you couldn’t. So what did you say to Frank Bronson?” His tone was measured, like he was trying to stay calm.

  “Well, he might be under the impression that you found Elissa’s phone.”

  Tom’s reaction was immediate and explosive. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You told a possible suspect in a missing persons case about evidence that had been discovered? Are you fucking crazy? Madison, I have had your back through all of the crazy shit that you do because somehow you end up with a good result at the end of it, but you are going to get so much shit for this and there is nothing I can do about it. You think you can do things because you’re not required to uphold the law like the rest of us poor fucks—”

  Madison lowered the volume on the Sync system because Tom was yelling so loudly that it was distorting the sound and she was afraid he was going to blow her speakers.

  “Tom! Tom! Listen to me!”

  “You have probably just fucked up an investigation that has been ongoing for two years—”

  Madison turned the sound all the way down so that all she could hear was a tiny little Tom coming out of the speakers, but she couldn’t make out the words. She waited until there was silence. She turned the speakers back up.

  “Are you fucking there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m trying to tell you the rest of the story. I understand you’re angry but it may be okay.”

  Tom was silent.

  “I pretended I was a journalist.”

  “And he talked to you?”

  At least Tom wasn’t screaming at her now. “Yes. He wanted to make a good impression with the media. He kept repeating that he was cooperating with the police.”

  Tom snorted. “He is hardly cooperating with the police. He won’t give us his phone, and we can’t get a warrant for his phone records because we don’t have probable cause. He has refused to give a statement. He has refused us access to his house, where she spent the night a lot. He is a dyed-in-the-wool refuser.”

  “Okay, so then I may have helped you in the end. I made up a story and he fell for it. I told him that iPhones have a black box, like the cockpit of an airplane, and that the iPhone makes a recording of the last phone call made. But only the police can access the recording through Apple with a warrant.”

  Tom was silent for a moment. “That’s actually pretty good.”

  “I know.” Madison took the exit off the 5 freeway onto La Jolla Parkway. As she came down the hill into La Jolla, the ocean appeared suddenly before her; it was like traveling from black and white into color in The Wizard of Oz. The blue of the ocean always varied here. Madison didn’t know if it was based on the temperature of the water or the sunlight or a combination of both. Right now it was a deep blue.

  “And he fell for it?” Tom asked.

  “He did,” Madison said. “He got all sweaty and nervous and started reciting his party line about cooperating with the police, and then he shut the door in my face.”

  Tom was silent for a minute. “Okay. I mean, it’s good, but now what?”

  “Do you need me to spell it out for you? How long have you been a cop?”

  “Funny. So your idea is that the one detective still working on this case, the detective who has numerous other cases, is supposed to go sit outside this guy’s house to see if he gets nervous and does something interesting, all because some chick thinks she spooked him?”

  “Oh now I’m ‘some chick’? Thanks.”

  “Look, don’t get all sensitive on me. You know what I’m saying.”

  Madison knew what he was saying. He was lucky he’d told her before what a good investigator he thought she was. She did not appreciate being called “some chick,” and she wasn’t going to let him live this down for a while. Either way, he was definitely communicating what the other detectives working the case would think about her suggestion, and she needed his help to convince them.

  “I’m not ‘some chick’; I’m a licensed professional who has a viable lead. So yes, I think someone should go sit outside his house and see where he goes.”

  “And you probably voted to reduce overtime for police officers, right?”

  “No, I did not. I vote to increase your salary and increase the number of police officers any chance I get.”

  “Right. Sure you did. Look, Madison, we just don’t have the manpower to do a twenty-four-hour surveillance on a suspect in a two-year-old missing persons case on the word of—”

  “Do not call me ‘some chick’ again.”

  “Fine, on the word of a ‘private investigator’ who has no experience with missing persons. Not to mention it is farfetched. The guy is a dick who refuses to cooperate, but it doesn’t mean he did something to his girlfriend. And also, Samantha Erickson went missing from the same area two years before. Did he do something to her and then get the itch again and do something to his girlfriend but wait until she was in the Gaslamp District to do it? When he had access to her at any other time of the day or night?”

  “Well when you put it like that it sounds farfetched.” Madison hated it when Tom was right. Still, she was the one who had stood there and watched the guy react to her story. There was something there. No, it didn’t make sense that he would’ve killed Samantha two years before, but she couldn’t decide where the investigation was going and push it in that direction; she had to let the investigation lead her, until it led to nothing. And this was the way it was leading her.

  “Okay, Tom,” Madison said. “Well, you can’t say that I’m not keeping you informed of everything.”

  “That’s true. And I do appreciate it. I don’t appreciate you telling him that we found her phone.”

  “You mean that I found her phone.”

  “Whatever,” Tom said. “Now I have to go tell this poor detective that you’re messing with this part of his case.”

  “We have a bad connection. I have to go.”

  “We do not have a bad connection. And don’t you do the surveillance on Frank Bronson yourself!”

  “Can’t hear you talk to you later bye.” Madison disconnected the call.

  Oh yes, Madison thought. I will do the surveillance on Frank Bronson myself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Madison pulled up around the corner from the La Jolla Library at one PM. Tom always made Madison laugh with his demanding this and demanding that. The fact was that while he could make requests of her, she didn’t have to follow his arbitrary orders. She’d undergone a rigorous examination process and an FBI background check. It was extremely difficult to get a private investigator’s license in California, for the exact reason that they did not want freaks or stalkers following people around. She was licensed to do it, and she could perform surveillance on Frank Bronson if she wanted to. And she wanted to.

  When she left Frank, after he slammed the door in her face, it had been about twelve thirty PM and he had j
ust woken up. She had to decide when Frank would get so nervous that he made a big mistake and went somewhere or did something that would give him away—assuming he had something to give away. This was when luck had to be on her side. The good news was that she was very lucky.

  Madison sighed and shook her head as she took off her seat belt and prepared to meet her new client. Tom was right: this was farfetched. But Madison didn’t have many leads. She had to pull on every string she found.

  She figured Frank would need to wake up, get something to eat, probably smoke a lot of cigarettes or weed, and get more and more nervous. San Diego had a decent rush hour that actually lasted a few hours, starting at about three PM. He probably would wait until after seven PM to go anywhere. Madison would have her meeting with Melissa, go home and get something to eat, and then set up her car for surveillance and sit outside Frank’s house and wait for his red Mitsubishi to go somewhere. Madison’s fingers felt tingly; she hadn’t been on a surveillance in a while and she missed it. She could sit around theorizing and looking at computer databases until she was blue in the face, but nothing beat going and sitting on someone and seeing where they led her.

  Madison got out of the car and locked it with the remote. She walked up to the library and saw a middle-aged woman sitting by herself on the bench in front. She was well put together, and she was wearing about $2,000 not including her jewelry. She could’ve sold her clothes and jewelry and paid the deposit on an apartment, not to mention the “grocery cash” she’d saved. Madison’s doubts about the case increased. Melissa’s hair was done, makeup on, St. John’s knit suit, pearls. She looked up and saw Madison.

  “Melissa?”

  “Yes, Madison?”

  Madison sat down next to her.

  “I’m sorry I’m a little late; I got caught up downtown.”

  “Oh, I just got here. No problem.”

  Melissa looked around. Madison loved this part of La Jolla. The library sat on a pretty street with manicured lawns. It was quiet except for some traffic noise coming from Pearl Street, which seemed far away.