Fragmented (15 page)

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m investigating a possible child abduction.”

The man’s smile turned to a straight line. “How can I help?”

“Are you Peter Thibault?”

“That’s right.” He stuck out a hand and Jack took it.

“Nice ship.”

Thibault smiled. “I like to call it home. It’s a Burger.”

“I take it we’re not talking meat.”

The man tilted his head and laughed. “If we were, we’d be talking pure Grade A, USDA prime. No, Burger Yachts. One of the finest made. One hundred twenty-one feet of pure luxury.”

“It’s a beauty.” Jack pulled out the folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to Thibault. “Do you recognize any one of these individuals?”

Thibault studied the picture a moment before his eyes fell heavy and his lips went tight. “Yeah, I know him,” he pointed to the UNSUB. Thibault shook his head and looked up at Jack. “Pretty old photo, though. He’s a lot older now. Worked aboard the Emerald Eyes for six months, about a year ago. Name’s Eric Youngblood. Showed up one day looking for work, scrubbing decks, polishing railings, things like that. Looked eager, so I threw him a bone and gave him a job.”

“Where is he now?”

“Said he had to move north, hook up with an old friend. Hated to let him go. He did a lot around here. I relied on him. He kind of left me hanging.”

“You have an address for Mr. Youngblood?”

“No,” Thibault responded. “I paid him his last week’s wage and off he went.” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “I do know that he’s from around here, though. Grew up and went to high school in
Newport Beach
. Lived with an uncle up along PCH in
Sunset
Beach
.”

“You got a name for the uncle?”

Thibault nodded. “Hold on. I think I actually do.”

He disappeared into the forward cabin and left Jack standing under the overhang of the upper deck. He returned after a few minutes.

“Here it is. I thought I had it.” Thibault handed Jack a file folder containing the payment record for Youngblood. Along with the record sheet was a sheet of yellow legal paper with hand written notes. “Right here.” Thibault pointed at a name and address scribbled on the bottom of the page. “That’s his uncle, Bernard Russell. It was his emergency contact.”

Jack took out a pen from his jacket and wrote down the information on the back of a piece of paper, then folded the paper and slid it into his jacket pocket. “Eric didn’t by chance mention the name of the friend he was going to see up north, did he?”

Thibault shook his head. “No. Just said he heard from an old friend and wanted to reconnect. Eric never seemed the sort to put down roots. I guess he just got restless and needed to move on.” He sighed. “Sorry I wasn’t more help.”

“You did fine.”

Thibault paused for a second before asking. “Did Eric have anything to do with this kidnapping?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

Thibault nodded. “For whatever it’s worth, Eric was a good kid. Got into trouble a while back. Drugs, mostly marijuana, nothing big. I told him if he wanted to stay working here, he had to clean up his act and he did. Never had any problems after that.”

“Thanks for the insight.” Jack looked around one last time, soaking in his surrounding. Working undercover, Jack had access to the undercover yacht, a Mercedes sport coupe, and a posh apartment overlooking the bright blue Pacific. The difference was it wasn’t his. It was all pretend. This, as he looked out over the side of this multi-million dollar yacht, was something someone actually owned
.

“Mr. Thibault, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you come up with the name Emerald Eyes?”

Thibault looked at Jack and smiled. “My daughter, Mr. Paris. It was the color of my daughter’s eyes.”

“She must be very pretty.”

His eyes glistened. “She was. Died five years ago. Auto accident.”

“I’m sorry.”

Thibault forced a thin smile as the two walked toward the gang plank.

“Agent
Paris
, do you have children?”

Jack nodded, feeling a slight bit guilty. His envy of Thibault’s wealth was over-shadowed by something far worse than what money could fix. “I do. Two.”

Thibault again smiled. “Don’t wait until something bad happens to memorialize them.” He took a hold of Jack’s hand, a firm handshake.

“I’ll do that.”

“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

The walk to the car was quiet. The pedestrian traffic grew thick as Jack found his way toward the parking lot. People lined the waterway, some walking their dogs, others out for an afternoon jog. Back behind the wheel of his rental car, Jack sat silently, staring at the Emerald Eyes, at its long sleek shape and the opulence of its stature. Some people measure success in dollars. But Jack knew that wasn’t always the case.

He rubbed the cover of his cell phone cradled in the palm of his hand, then flipped it open and remembered he had seven missed calls. He started filtering through them as he stared out the window, not paying much attention to any one of them until he came to the last message.

“Jack, it’s Border Collins.” The job offer. “Haven’t heard back from you. We’re still on for Friday if you can make it. Give me a call as soon as possible.” The call ended. Jack thought about Thibault, his daughter, his last remark. He pressed nine, saving the message.

24

Wednesday –
6:08 p.m.

The homes
along the shoreline were long and thin, like books on a shelf, each paneled in shake siding with large glass windows facing the scenic
Pacific Ocean
. If the water wasn’t moving, you’d think it was a postcard. Feeder roads cut between the rows of slender beach houses where people on bicycles and joggers filtered through on their way to the beach. The air was comfortably moist, filled with the conflicting sounds of crashing ocean waves and the rumbling of convertibles roaring by.

The houses had been around for decades. Most were rentals to families and college students during the summer months.

Jack slowed along PCH as he entered
Seal Beach
. Small businesses lined the major highway with gaps leading to the sandy coastline. Jack continued north, parallel to the coast, coming upon a row of older beach cottages, colorful nylon flags gently floating from their front porch decks. He parked in front of a deep, navy blue cottage sandwiched between one painted bright yellow and another weathered to a dingy brown. A white picket fence formed a rectangle around the front of the building.

An uneven brick walkway led to a hardwood door with a triangular glass window. Jack knocked and peered inside. Soon, a
man appeared. Late sixties, maybe early seventies, thin white hair, clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. He peeked through the window and caught Jack staring back. The man returned a blank stare, like Jack was a salesman or worse, someone trying to enlighten him on the word of God. Jack pulled out his credentials and held them up to the glass. “Can I have a word with you, please?
”

A metal latch pulled back and the door creaked opened.

“Mr. Russell?” Jack asked. “I’m Special Agent Jack Paris with the FBI. Can I come in?”

Russell hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and stepped aside.

Russell motioned with his hands, nervously. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, making for the back of the home and the kitchen, which like the house itself was small and narrow, the walls canary yellow, the floors burgundy and white, checkerboard asphalt tiles. A bay view window looked out toward more rows of quaint homes. Russell pulled two mugs from a cupboard next to the stove and poured them each a cup.

Jack removed the photo from his jacket and pointed at Eric Youngblood. After Russell acknowledged their relationship, Jack’s finger slid toward Cooper.

“Do you know the person standing next to your nephew?”

Russell glanced at the picture, eyes shifting down through his black plastic bifocals. “Yeah,” he whispered as he shook his head. “That’s Alvie. Alvin Cooper. Eric met him when we first moved into the neighborhood back in 1990.” Russell raised his eyebrow. “He’s in jail for murdering his family, you know?”

Jack nodded. “I know. We’re looking into another matter.”

“Is he in more trouble?”

“Could be.”

“Is Eric all right?”

“I don’t know. I spoke to his former employer, Peter Thibault. He said Eric took off about a year ago. I was hoping you could help me find him.”

“Haven’t heard from him since he left. Kind of his style, though.” Russell stood from the table and walked to the counter, where a wire basket spilled over with unopened mail and folded correspondences. Russell plucked a small card. “Got this from him maybe a month after he split.” He handed the card to Jack and sat back down at the kitchen table.

The postcard featured a picture of the Space Needle in
Seattle
. Two scribbled lines on back:
I’m doing fine. Thanks for everything. Eric.

Russell rubbed his jaw. “Only thing I got from him. Far as I know, he’s still up there.”

“Any family or friends live in
Seattle
?”

“None. Eric’s mother, Gayle, died back in the early ’80s. Cancer. They lived in
San Diego
back then. Didn’t know his father. Just some guy passing through town, a one night stand. Eric came to live with me after his mother died. Had no one else.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Going on fifteen years. That’s about when we met Alvie. We moved here at the end of ’89. I got a refurbishing job here at a local boat shop. Rented this place and we had an extra room. Thought it would be good to have a tenant to help pay the bills.”

“He would’ve been about nineteen,” Jack said.

Russell nodded. “That’s about right. Same age as Eric. He said he needed a place to stay. He graduated from
Bolsa
Chica
High School
, not too far from here. Said he took a couple of months traveling
Europe
, a graduation gift from his mother.” Russell cleared his throat and his voice became sullen. “While he was away, his mother died of a heart attack. He didn’t find out until he returned. Hell, when he told me that, I felt sorry for the guy. Took him in that afternoon, told him he could pay me when he got a job.”

“How long did he stay?”

“Just under two years.”

Jack thought about the timing. Two years put him right in line with a trip north and the killing of Grace Holloway in
Renton
.

“You know, Eric and Alvie traveled up and down the coast. Disappear for weeks. At first, I worried, but it brought a little life back into Eric, something that was missing since his mother died.”

“Did they ever travel to
Seattle
together?”

Russell arched an eyebrow, nodding. “Kind of strange. I remember when they came back from one of their trips north, things were a little different.”

Russell’s response piqued Jack’s interest, and he asked Russell to explain.

“I don’t know, just different. They seemed edgy. It wasn’t long after that, Alvie packed his bags late one night and just vanished. Didn’t hear anything about him until years later when I learned he killed his wife and kid.”

The room fell silent. Russell kept staring on his coffee. “Something happened when they took that trip up there, didn’t it?”

“A fifteen-year-old girl was kidnapped and murdered,” Jack said. Then as if reading the old man’s thoughts, he added, “There’s no evidence Eric was involved.”

“What about Cooper?”

What about Cooper? Russell now referring to
Alvin
in the formal term, not the family friendly name he had been using.

“It looks like Cooper . . . contributed . . . to her disappearance.”

“And her death?”

Jack nodded.

Russell’s stare drifted downward, his forehead settling in his palm.

“Did Eric ever tell you he was heading up to
Seattle
to see Cooper?”

“No.”

“I need to find Alvin Cooper. I’m thinking Eric can point me in the right direction.”

“I thought Cooper’s in jail?” Russell said.

Jack shook his head. “Escaped.”

All color drained from Russell’s face. “I wish I could help you, Agent Paris, but like I said, I haven’t heard from Eric for almost a year.”

“You said Cooper just up and vanished?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to see Cooper’s room.”

Russell hesitated a moment before relenting. “I guess that would be OK.”

Jack stood and motioned for Russell to lead the way.

Upstairs, the rooms were divided between the front and the back of the house, the master bedroom in the back, two small rooms splitting the space up front. Russell pointed at the first door on the right. “That’s his.”

He stepped back, letting Jack make his way inside.

It was sparse with a single bed, plain wooden headboard, a matching nightstand and chest of drawers. The bed was made as if awaiting Cooper’s return. Two framed pictures hung on the wall, paintings of sailboats. The air was stale and cool, like no one had been in there for ages. Jack took his time, walked the room, didn’t touch anything. He knelt down, peered under the bed. Nothing but balls of dust. He turned his head and saw Russell watching him.

The two stepped out of the room, toward the stairs in back.

“That other one Eric’s room?”

“Yes, that’s his.”

“Mind if I take a quick look?”

Russell looked surprised, maybe even annoyed at the request but then just shrugged. “Go on in.”

It looked nearly identical to Cooper’s. Eric’s room had more personal items lying around, like a person who really belonged. But there was nothing that would help him find Youngblood. He knelt one more time, peering under the bed. This time, there was a well-worn cardboard box. He carefully slid it out.

“What did you find?”

He looked back at Russell, pointed at the box and gave a look that said, “Are you okay with me searching?”

Russell waited quietly in the hallway without a sign of protest.

Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He peeled back a red sweater on top, revealing several books and a banded block of envelopes, letters.

“Correspondences, notebooks.” Jack said, as if to himself.

The letters were addressed to a Madelyn Cooper at an address in
Newport Beach
.

“They’re Cooper’s,” Jack said.

Russell still said nothing.

Jack flipped through the envelopes and read the names listed to and from. All from Alvin Cooper, sent when he was in
Europe
. Jack placed the letters to the side of the box on the floor and scanned the remaining items. Four spiral notebooks, each with a different color cover. Jack flipped through the first notebook, noticing pages of handwritten paragraphs, each page dated and timed. He read the first line from each, getting a sense of what he was reading. It didn’t take long to realize what he had: Cooper’s journals. A worldview through a serial killer’s eyes. Suddenly Jack felt excited and disturbed at the same time.

“I’m taking these.” He wasn’t asking.

“Go ahead.”

Jack placed everything back in the box. The letters drew his interest but he had to read the journals if he wanted to understand Cooper’s mind. What made him tick, and possibly what made him kill. He thanked Russell for his time and gave him a business card.

“Call me if you remember anything that may help us locate Cooper or your nephew, Eric.”

They stood by the bay view window as they shook hands, Russell’s eyes betraying anger and regret.