Читать книгу Missing: The Oregon City Girls - Rick Watson - Страница 14
ОглавлениеMore days pass with no new information forthcoming about Ashley. Customers’ cars surround a crowded suburban Barry’s Restaurant. A green sedan is one of those cars and its owner, Linda O’Neal, is comfortably seated inside the restaurant across the table from her longtime friend. Ginger is a tall, slender and attractive forty-something woman who works in the administration offices for the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Department. Off and on, for years the two have shared mutual gossip gleaned from their respective situations. Privileged information can be a most useful commodity for a private investigator, so valuable sources must be tended.
Chicken Cordon Bleu floating on a bed of crispy lettuce is being carefully set onto the table by a smiling senior citizen waitress. “Can I get you girls anything else?”
Linda smiles warmly. “Yes, an extra plate. We’re going to share.” After the waitress departs, Linda examines her companion. “You look really good, Ginger. Been working out?”
“It’s the kick boxing. Tuesday and Thursday nights.”
“Kick boxing?”
“Oh, yeah. Linda, those twenty-something studs are very effective instructors. You ought to give it a try. Want to come with me next time?”
“Do you have to wear one of those funny costumes?”
“It’s not a costume, silly. It’s just appropriate sports attire.”
Linda chuckles nervously. “Well, I don’t think so. It’s really not my style. I’m not prancing around in some leotard and thong! Besides, every spare moment I get is being dominated by a tragedy on my husband’s side of the family.”
Ginger touches the top of Linda’s hand. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Philip’s step-granddaughter is missing and I’m trying to help the family because, well frankly, so far, the police have dead-ended.”
Ginger is confused. “The missing girl is your husband’s what?”
“Yeah, I know, you practically need a program to keep up with this cast of characters.” Linda pauses. “It’s like this. Philip was married as a teenager. His wife was the mother of his first two kids, now in their thirties. They divorced. Then his ex-wife had two more kids by her next husband. One of those girls grew up and had kids of her own. Her oldest is the girl who disappeared, Ashley Pond.”
Ginger sighs, “So you’re trying to find Ashley Pond too. Every investigator in Clackamas County is looking for her. Boy, has that case turned into a circus. It’s getting bigger and bigger, especially since the FBI took over.”
“Yeah, and that puts you right in the center ring.”
“Too bad it’s in a tiny car filled with a bunch of clowns.” Ginger shakes her head.
Linda glances around as if to detect potential eavesdroppers. When she is satisfied, she asks, “Any good suspects?”
“We can’t go there, Linda. With the Feds involved we’ve been warned that leaks will not be tolerated. These guys are fanatical. I mean people could lose their jobs.”
“Okay, we won’t talk about the case, but there’s nothing to keep us from gossiping about our mutual friends and my in-laws.” They laugh. Linda resumes. “For instance, do you know if anybody’s been driving over to Molalla a lot lately?”
“Molalla. Molalla. That rings a bell somewhere. Let me think a minute. As a matter of fact, I believe some detective was pursuing a lead from Molalla, a guy from West Linn police. Detective, uuh, Jay, I think it is. Jay Weitman.”1 2
“What about Molalla got him riled?”
“Can’t go there, Linda. The best I can do is maybe just confirm information you have. Do you want to tell me what your Molalla connection is?”
Linda pauses to consider the implications. “No, I really don’t. I don’t have enough to go on yet. I was just hoping…Oh well.” Linda’s expression tightens as she prepares to plead. “Come on old friend. Give me something here. If it was the other way around, I’d spring. How about Lori Pond? Is she getting close scrutiny?”
Ginger smiles. “Oh Linda, you know how to work me so good. Okay. But don’t push me. Naturally, they’ve all got eyes on Lori Pond. The profilers always say look to the immediate family. A lot of focus right now is on her, her background, who she has hung around with, all the police calls to her apartment.”
“She has a lot of snakes in the closet, from what I hear, but is there any real evidence?”
“All I know is there’s a lot of hours being invested in looking at Lori Pond. And of course, Lori Pond says it’s some guy named Ward Weaver.”
“Is there any evidence against Lori, like assaults or violence?”
“You tell me. The other day a detective was showing our boss a bunch of photos they took at Pond’s apartment and there must have been five or ten different places where a hole got punched. I’m talking about the doors and the walls. Many, many holes. And when they asked Lori about one of the biggest ones, I think it was in the bathroom door, she admitted to causing the damage herself. She said every hole had an accidental cause and none came about because of any fighting. She said that big bathroom hole happened when she had to kick it in because Ashley locked herself in and wouldn’t come out. And another one was when they were playing, not fighting. She said not one was caused by fighting.”3
Linda beams. “Cool. Thanks, Ginger.”
“For what? We just talked about your in-laws.” She laughs.
A telephone call no matter what time of day or night can be a jarring experience. But if you’re a private investigator working on a group of perplexing cases, when a phone rings you can’t ever be sure who it might be. So every time, Linda is compelled to answer, no matter how occupied she might be. After all, this one might be an emergency. Dropping her case file to the table, she answers and it is, indeed, an emergency. It is her mother, and her mother is very agitated. Linda tries to be soothing. “Calm down Mother. Calm down. Now what did you say was the problem?”
“I told you. I’m at the beauty parlor. I just had my hair done, like I do every other Wednesday. And I got in my car to go home and it wouldn’t go. It just wouldn’t. So I need for you to come and get me and take me home.”
“Can’t you call Dad? He’s a lot closer. I mean, Mother, I’m twenty miles away.”
“Nonsense! Your father is home, but don’t be silly, Linda. How could he come and get me? I’ve got the car.”
“What do you think is wrong with the car?”
“I have no idea. It just won’t go.”
“Where did you say you were?”
“I’m at the beauty parlor. Come and get me, right now.” Her mother hangs up the phone. Linda grimaces.
Philip is in his editing cubicle slaving away on a wedding video. He glances up when he hears the familiar footsteps approach from behind. “Well, well my lovely, I thought you were doing internet chores. Getting bored?”
“My mom’s car broke down at the beauty shop. I’ve got to go on a rescue mission. Want to come along, be my sidekick?”
“I would Sweetie, but Dr. Peters is coming in at 3:00 to lay down his voice-over on his childhood home movies. He’s coming all the way from Corvallis, so…”
“Okay, I guess I’m flying solo on this one.”
Soon she is driving along the freeway westward from Portland towards the suburban city of Hillsboro. Linda attempts to keep the car at the speed limit, fifty-five miles an hour, but occasionally she slips up and pushes a bit faster. It is during one of those slip-ups, near Beaverton in afternoon rush hour, that the right rear tire blows. It takes a quarter of a mile and about a pint of adrenaline to bring the car to a safe stop in the right emergency lane. Three solid lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic fly by. The collage of SUVs, pickups and sedans provides a blurry backdrop to her plight as she opens her trunk and struggles through mountains of possessions in search of the spare tire.
By the time the motorcycle cop pulls in behind her, Linda has deposited several dozen items in various stacks behind the car. She also has jacked the rear wheel high into the air and has successfully substituted the spare for the flat.
She is in the process of lowering the car back to the ground when she sees him climbing off the big cycle. “Hello,” she greets the helmeted officer. “You’ve arrived just in time to put a man’s touch on a situation where it counts the most.”
The policeman seems confused. “Excuse me?”
Linda chuckles. “The lug nuts. There’s no way a lady can give that extra oomph when tightening those. Wouldn’t you agree, officer?” She hands him the four-way wrench.
After tightening the nuts, he notices the many teetering piles of recently stacked items from the car’s trunk. “Let me help you with that,” he offers kindly. He retrieves several grocery sacks stuffed with file folders and hands them to Linda who hastily arranges them. He suddenly becomes alarmed and touching the front of his holster, he shouts, “A gun! Lady, are you in possession of a firearm?” Before Linda can respond the officer bends over and picks up a clear gallon sized Ziplock plastic bag with a .357 snub nosed revolver clearly visible inside along with a pair of speed-load clips.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry about the gun, sir. But I have a permit to carry it, although I must confess that gun mostly just stays in the trunk. I’m a licensed private investigator.” She pulls some documents from her crowded purse and attempts to give them to him. In order to take possession he hands her the plastic bagged revolver. Linda comments while he inspects the papers. “You can see everything is on the up-and-up. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am on an emergency trip to Hillsboro. My mother’s having a crisis. Her car broke down at the beauty parlor and I need to rescue her. I guess I’ve got a lot on my plate today.”
The policeman removes his sunglasses and ponders. “How old is she?”
“It’s not polite to ask a lady’s age, but what the hell! She’s seventy, going on twelve, if you know what I mean.” Linda laughs and looks at her watch.
He smiles. “It’s probably just a dead battery or something like that. Do you have jumper cables?”
“No, but if I can’t get it started I’ll just call a tow truck. For God’s sake, that’s what she should be doing. I don’t see why…”
The officer smiles warmly. “I have a mom just a little younger than yours, and sometimes they just need a little TLC. It’s going to be okay, ma’am, it really is.”
Linda is touched. “Thanks for saying that, sir. It’s very kind.”
“It’s the truth, ma’am.”
Linda returns to her re-packing. “Can you hand me that?” She points to a round, white plastic object attached to folding legs.
The young policeman makes a face as he gingerly picks up the strange item. “What the heck is this?” he inquires.
Linda puts her hand over her mouth in mock embarrassment. “It’s a folding port-a-potty. You tie these little plastic bags on the wire frame there. You see, you guys, when you’re on stakeout and nature calls, just lean up beside the car. But what’s a girl to do?” Linda giggles, takes the toilet seat from the officer and tucks it into the crammed trunk on top of some crushed file sacks.
Moments later she is back behind the wheel ready to roll. The friendly state patrolman approaches with a final comment. “Okay ma’am, best of luck to your mother and you.”
Lydia’s Lovely Look Salon is an integral component of Linda’s mother’s weekly regimen. For decades, she has been having the same style done before making a customary stop at the local supermarket during the journey home. Today’s car trouble is the first break in that routine for more than thirty years.
When she pulls into the parking lot of the beauty salon, Linda notices that the building and signs are exactly the same as the last time she had her hair done at Lydia’s for high school graduation. Linda was salutatorian, and had gone for the latest “Bond Girl” style. She also remembers the graduation card her mother had given her for the occasion—the one that contained a gift certificate for an introductory session at Weight Watchers. Her parents’ charcoal Taurus sits nestled right in front of the shop’s main entrance in the only designated “handicapped” spot. Linda briefly peers through the driver’s window then enters the shop where she discovers her mother near the front window chatting with a few salon employees and their customers.
Her mother turns and sees her. “Linda, I was just telling them about your grandpa’s place, the house I grew up in, in Iowa. Remember my grandpa’s house was just up the path on the little rise?”
“Yes Mother, I remember.” Linda picks up her mother’s nearby purse and hands it to her. “Give me your keys. I’m going to check out your car and see if I can get it started.”
She surrenders the keys then turns her attention to her interrupted Iowa story, while her daughter goes outside and gets into the sedan. Linda inserts the ignition key and turns it clockwise. To her surprise the engine fires up and idles smoothly. Next she engages the transmission by shifting it into “reverse,” and backs up a few feet, then forward. She shrugs, shakes her head, shuts the engine off, restarts it, revs the motor for a few more seconds, then shuts it off again and gets out of the car.
When Linda is back inside the shop she walks over to her mother, “Mom, the car is fine. I thought you said it broke down.”
“No, no, I said it wouldn’t go.”
“Well it started just fine for me, so there’s no problem. Here’s your keys.” Linda hands the keys back, leaves the building and heads for her car. She stops when she hears a familiar voice calling her, only this time it is tinged with desperation. “Linda, please. Wait! Help me.”
“But I just tried it and the car is fine.”
“But Linda, maybe I’m not fine. I didn’t say the car wouldn’t start. I sat in it and I couldn’t make it go. I was sitting there and I couldn’t remember where I was going or even how to make the car move. Can you help me, please?”
For an instant Linda is at a loss for how to respond. During all of the preceding years her mother has always been a forceful presence, always self-assured and determined. This new version of mom, a frightened apparition, the ghost of the strong female who had always dominated every person she was in contact with is unsettling. For several moments Linda stands in the parking lot watching her mother’s perplexed expression, anxiously wondering just what she should do. Finally she takes her mother by the hand, leads her to her car and assists her getting into the passenger seat. “I’ll take you home, and then bring Dad back to get your car.”
It is the scenario every adult child dreads: when parent and child exchange roles. For Linda it is particularly agonizing. During the five minute ride Linda is shocked at the silence. Her normally gregarious, talkative parent doesn’t utter one word until she sees her own house as they pull into the driveway. “Goodness,” she then exclaims, “I think it must be time to get dinner started.”
While driving her dad back to the shop to fetch the car, Linda expresses her concerns. “I think you need to get Mom to a doctor, Dad. I don’t know what’s going on, but she may have had a small stroke or it may be a deteriorating mental condition. This could be a signal that something is seriously wrong.”
Linda’s father shakes his head. “Look, your mom goes to the doctor more than any woman her age. She’s sees her doctor at least once a week, and he says she’s fine. Don’t worry, she’s okay. She’s just a little high strung. She’s fine. Really, she’s fine. Everything will be okay.”
When they get back to the house, Linda watches her mother fixing dinner and for a short while the older woman appears to be functioning. Linda, still apprehensive, bids her parents good-bye.
During the traffic-infested journey from her parents’ home, Linda uses her cell phone to discuss her concerns about her mother with her younger sister. “It was so weird. I mean, you know how Mom usually acts. I don’t ever remember her asking for help from anybody. She always tells everybody else how it’s going to be. She never asks for help, and today she was almost begging me.”
Her sister is startled. “That definitely doesn’t sound like Mom.”
“She knew there was something wrong with her, at least at that moment. Later, once she was in the kitchen fixing dinner, she seemed normal. But I’m telling you, when she realized she’d forgotten how to drive, she was asking me for help. I was blown away. And when I told Dad about it, he just laughed it off. He says she’s just fine. He thinks it was just a little stress. What do you think? You’ve had a lot more contact with her than I have the last few years. Have you noticed her acting strangely?”
“Well she seems focused on the long ago past. She’s been talking a lot about her growing up years—a lot of stories about the farm, her nine brothers and sisters and meeting Dad. I have noticed that lately.”
“She’s past seventy now, and a lot of diseases like Alzheimer’s kick in then. Sis, somebody needs to get hold of her doctor and talk with him. I mean, if she had some sort of stroke, it needs to be checked out. Something needs to be done here.”
“What makes you think it’s so alarming?”
“Remember Aunt Betty? Well, you were pretty young, but she had a small stroke and it became the starting point for the big decline for her. She went through several episodes of wigging out and it got worse and worse. They finally had to put her in some nursing home and she didn’t last very long there at all. I’m telling you, this could be serious. Something has to be done and you should do it. You’ve always been closer to her than me.”
“It should be up to Dad, shouldn’t it?” her sister asks.
“I don’t think he can make the call to her doctor and get the ball rolling.” Linda waits for her sister to reply.
“You’re the firstborn child Linda, you do it. Besides, you were the one she called when she thought she needed help.”
For a few moments neither sister comments, both reflecting on the issue. Eventually, Linda’s sister consents to telephoning the doctor.
When she finally arrives home, Linda looks for Philip and as usual, he is in his editing suite manipulating video images. When he notices her, he pauses the machine, stands and embraces her. “No tragedies while you were gone. I took one call on your business line. It was from Barnett. He said not to worry about the Espinoza trial after all. He’s pleading out. Did you get your mother’s car fixed?”
Linda sighs, “There was nothing wrong with her car. She couldn’t remember how to drive, and she has been driving for more than fifty years.”
“That sounds like a job for her doctor, not you.”
Linda bites her lip and then goes on. “That’s the next step. Sis is calling about an evaluation.”
Philip looks pensively at his wife and decides to say nothing, seeing the conflicted emotions play plainly on her face.
Linda sighs heavily, “I need to get back to the search for Ashley.”
The FBI task force watches Lori Pond and her boyfriend, Dave Roberts, all day on March 1, trying to find out whether they were involved in Ashley’s disappearance.4 The date would have been the girl’s thirteenth birthday.5 The couple lead the police to a birthday gathering the family holds as a remembrance.
When Linda finds out, her comment to Allison is abrupt. “Well, at least they are looking, even if it is right out of the manual. They haven’t given up on her. But most of them still think she’s hiding out somewhere. I’m not so sure.”
The campaign to secure inpatient evaluation for their mother consumes a tremendous amount of Linda’s sister’s time the next ten days, mainly because she has to find a facility within modest driving distance from her parents’ Hillsboro home. Their dad is firm on that requirement, because he will be making many visits to his wife and feels ill equipped to drive great distances because of his advancing age. Finally a bed becomes available at Forest Grove Hospital six miles away. Resistive at first, their mother eventually acquiesces because the hospital stay will help soothe all the family’s anxiety. She’s checked in on a Monday afternoon by her two daughters and their dad, each of whom commits to a visitation regimen. Dad will come every morning and every evening. The sisters will pop in whenever their schedules permit.
On Friday, March 8, while Linda’s sister watches the Dayroom TV at the hospital, Linda and her mother are engaged in another conversation about Grandpa’s Iowa farm.
“Did I ever tell you about that homemade wine he used to make down in the cellar? It’s so funny Linda, because we could always tell when he’d been in that cellar, because he’d always have a big grin on that face of his when he came into the room.”
Linda’s sister interrupts, very excited. “Linda, Linda, didn’t you say you were working on a case involving Ashley Pond?”
Linda feels her heart beating more quickly. “Is there some news?”
“Look! They’re talking about her on TV.”
A female reporter is shown speaking into a handheld microphone with the Newell Creek Apartments clearly visible in the background.
“Ashley Pond disappeared from this location exactly two months ago. And incredibly, a second teenaged girl has also disappeared from the same location under similar circumstances. Miranda Gaddis, a friend and classmate of Ashley’s, disappeared this morning from the Newell Creek Apartments on her way to the school bus stop, the exact stop Ashley was headed for when she went missing on January 9. Police sources say she may have run away, or she may have met with foul play. But as of now, they have no witnesses and no crime scene.”
As she stares up at the screen, Linda feels sadness and guilt ripple through her. Another girl missing means that the chance that Ashley will return is next to nothing. It means that she was most likely taken—it means that Linda had failed, and a little girl has paid the price. Aghast, the PI begins weeping softly while her puzzled mother tries her best to understand why her daughter’s upset. “Linda, what’s the matter with you?”
Linda lapses into a muttering monologue as she rocks her head back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks. A nearby nurse hears her and rushes in to offer comfort. “No, no, no. Oh God! No. Not Miranda, too. It’s crazy. I just met her. She was so alert and perky. I’ve got to get back to work! Oh this could have been so different. If I had really worked on the Ashley Pond case, I might have prevented this. She was so lovely, so spunky. Maria asked me for help, but I wasn’t sure what to do. Now I am. A third girl is not going to disappear if there’s anything in the world that I can do to prevent it.”
