“It’s . . . it’s frankly unclear in the book. She’s written only the first half or so, and it ends in a bit of a cliff-hanger. But in addition to the character who’s a stand-in for my sister, there’s one pretty clearly based on Charlotte’s boyfriend, Zach. He’s called Marco in the book, and she paints a picture of the relationship that’s abusive. There are also two other men that Charlotte’s character—Clare—is involved with. The first is a Wall Street banker she calls Matthew. The second is an undergraduate student named Jason, who’s in a class that Clare TA’s. I don’t know if either of those people existed in Charlotte’s real life, but she was the teaching assistant in some creative writing class at NYU. Did you find anything in her phone messages or e-mails that’s consistent with her being involved with other men? Specifically a student or a banker?”
He gets up from his chair and pulls a banker’s box off the floor, then drops it on the desk between us. After flipping through the manila folders, he yanks out a file toward the back.
“These are her phone records,” Gabriel says. “We’ve been through them, cross-referencing to people.” He turns a few pages before stopping at what I assume is a summary, based on the fact that it appears to be some type of chart. “There are a bunch of phone calls to and from what we think are prepaid phones. Your sister’s a student, and that’s not uncommon in their world. We’ve called the numbers, but no one’s answering. That could just mean that the minutes were exhausted.”
“In the book, the Wall Streeter, the guy Charlotte calls Matthew, he uses a burner phone to communicate with her because he’s married,” I say.
Gabriel nods. “That’s another big market for prepaid phones. We call the users PMS—poor, married, or students.”
I’d done enough burner-phone cases to know that the incoming calls to Charlotte were going to wind up being a dead end. People use burners precisely because they’re untraceable. Sometimes you get lucky and the phone is activated where it was purchased, but cheating husbands always pay in cash, so there’s never a credit card connected to the purchase. Then you’re left flashing photos at the store owner in the hope that he can remember the customer. In this case, even that wouldn’t help because we didn’t have anyone’s picture to flash besides Zach’s—and there was no reason for him to call Charlotte from a prepaid phone.
“What about texts or e-mails?” I ask.
“Without having the phone—which we don’t, and Zach is claiming that it’s not in the apartment—we can’t get texts. The iPhone finder shows the phone isn’t on, which means all we have to go on is the list of incoming and outgoing calls. And as for e-mails, it’s just school-related stuff. Certainly nothing that indicated a romantic relationship or threats or anything of that nature.”
This was even worse than I’d expected. Roadblocks at every turn.
“Do you mind if I take a look? I may recognize some of the numbers.”
He hands me the folder. The dates are from this month. My number appears by far the most frequently—almost half of the calls Charlotte made and received. The others I don’t recognize at all, except for Zach’s. He called infrequently. Even on Tuesday night into Wednesday morning—when he was supposedly frantic because Charlotte wasn’t home—his phone number appears a grand total of three times. In other words, he called just enough to look like he was worried. And on the day before, Monday, not even once.
“Were you able to get the search warrant for the apartment?” I ask.
I know that’s going to be another dead end. If Gabriel had searched the place, he would have told me that by now.
“We tried, but no dice. We told the judge that the family is worried, and dropped yours and your father’s names. I think that’s the only reason we got access to the e-mails and phone records, to be honest with you. Unfortunately, the judge drew the line at letting us rifle through Zach’s stuff or his phone or computer without more proof that a crime has actually occurred. The more time that goes by, the more compelling our argument is that your sister is a victim of foul play. We’ll get the warrant eventually.”
Time. The one thing we didn’t have.
I’m quickly losing any hope of a happy ending. Charlotte must be dead . . . or worse, being held captive somewhere. That’s the only explanation.
As if he can sense my despair, Gabriel says, “Stay positive, okay? This is very important stuff you’re telling me about the book, and it’s going to be a big help in finding your sister. We’ll take a look at the students in the class, and also keep an eye out for anyone in her life that seems to be a banker type. For the time being, though, let’s keep the manuscript between us, okay? I don’t want anyone else knowing it exists.”
I’m about to ask him why when our meeting is interrupted by a knock at the door. The man who opens it is another detective wearing his badge on a chain around his neck. He has the look of a retired football player. Beefy and not too bright.
“Hey, Jim, you remember Ella Broden, don’t you?” Gabriel says.
He looks at me with a hint of recognition, but not much more. I can’t place his face at all.
“Hi,” he says, and extends his hand. “Jim McCorry. Nice to meet you.” Then he looks back to Gabriel. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“I can step out,” I say.
“No, you stay,” Gabriel answers, already getting up. “I won’t be long.”
I’m only by myself for a few minutes, but it feels like hours. In my head, Jim McCorry is telling Gabriel my worst fears about Charlotte have been realized.
“It wasn’t about your sister,” Gabriel says as soon as he returns to the office. “I feel like I need to say that every time I see you or you’re going to jump out of your skin.”
“Sorry. But that was what I was thinking.”
“There was a break in the Jennifer Barnett case,” he says.
I’m careful not to reveal that we have a client involved in the Barnett investigation. Not only because such a disclosure would be a violation of the attorney–client privilege, but because I’m ashamed that we’re representing Paul. Here I am begging Gabriel to find Charlotte while at the same time I’m ready, willing, and able to do what I can to thwart him from finding Jennifer Barnett if it’s in my client’s interest.
“Do you think that the Jennifer Barnett case is connected to my sister’s?”
His expression makes clear that he’s been expecting this question.
“We haven’t seen any evidence that Jennifer Barnett knew your sister or that they had any friends, or even acquaintances, in common. But it’s quite the anomaly. Two young, white women of means being abducted in Manhattan within days of each other. It goes without saying that we’re not making any public statement about the possibility that they’re linked. The very last thing we want is a panic that twentysomething women are at risk of being abducted. So at the press conference I’m just going to say that we have no reason to believe that there’s any connection. And that’s the truth. But as you’re not just a family member, but also someone who knows how things are in the real world, I want you to know that we’re looking into that possibility.”
I say a silent prayer that Jennifer Barnett’s disappearance is not related to Charlotte’s, and that, like Gabriel said, it is just a horrible coincidence. The only alternative is that the same man did this—a man who likely had no connection to either of them. That would almost certainly mean they’re both dead.
11.