18th Abduction (Women's Murder Club) Read Free Page B

divorced, watched late-night TV every night, and had lost thirty-five pounds in the last year. “She’s fun and a gifted pianist, and she’s looking for love,” Slaughter said. She’d bought skinny jeans and become a blonde.
    We asked about Saran next, and Slaughter told us that she was new to the school. “She came here about a year ago from a public school in Monterey. Teaches English lit, reads a lot, and works out at our gym every day at lunch. She’s thoughtful. Serious. She’d been coming out of her shell lately. We’re good for her, I’d say. Although now …”
    Conklin and I had questions: Had any of the women had any recent problems at the school with students or faculty? Had any of them received threats? Did they have addictions, any trouble with relatives or suitors? Any sign of depression?
    No, no, no, no.
    According to Slaughter, the three young women had perfect attendance records, were well liked, and, except for Adele, were dating a bit.
    “This is hell,” she told us. “I feel very bad to say this, but really, I could be missing right now. You could be looking for me. Please tell me that they could still be … safe.”
    I couldn’t tell her what she wanted to know, so I deflected.
    “Every cop in the city is looking for them. Our forensics lab is going over their cars and apartments and electronics. We’re in contact with their parents. We
will
find your friends.”
    I was reassuring Slaughter and convincing myself that we’d have a solid lead on this crime by day’s end. There had to be a video, a witness, a tip, that would lead to the missing schoolteachers. Right? Even a ransom call would be welcome.
    We thanked Karin Slaughter for her help, urged her to call if something useful occurred to her, and headed to our next appointment.
    By the end of the school day, my partner and I had spoken to two dozen people at the school and had gotten a few thin, go-nowhere leads. We stopped off at the forensics lab around five that evening.
    Clapper was putting on his jacket when we walked in.
    “Their cars are dirty,” he told us. “Like regular dirty. A lot of fingerprints, dirt on the floor mats, water bottles. We’re running the prints off all of that. Nothing jumps out from their personal or office computers, but we’re still working on those and their cell phone histories.”
    “So … nothing to tell us, right?”
    “Boxer, we’re dancing as fast as we can,” said Clapper.
    The three of us walked out to the parking lot together.
    Even small talk eluded us.
    Where were those women? With who? What had happened to them?

CHAPTER 6
    Joe Molinari left his office at the San Francisco branch of the FBI at around seven and walked to where he’d parked his car, on Golden Gate Avenue near Larkin.
    This district, between Civic Center and the Tenderloin, was a maze of dark streets populated by rent-by-the-hour hotels and was the go-to neighborhood for drug pushers and their clientele, criminals (some of them violent), and the terminally out of luck.
    Joe’s keys were in hand and his car was under a streetlight, apparently untouched. He was thinking about home and dinner when he saw a woman sitting on the curb near his car with her head in her hands. She was sobbing.
    As he came closer, Joe saw that she was wearing only one shoe and that her jacket sleeve was ripped at the shoulder. But otherwise, the quality of her clothing was good. Joe didn’t think she was homeless.
    Maybe she’d been mugged.
    “Hey there,” he said.
    The woman looked up. The streetlight revealed a disfiguring burn scar on the left side of her face from the outer corner of her eye to her upper lip. She pulled at her scarf to cover it.
    “Are you okay?” Joe asked.
    “Fantastic,” she said.
    Then her expression crumpled and she lowered her head into her hands again.
    Joe sat down on the curb next to her.
    “What’s your name?”
    She dried her face with her sleeve and eventually said, “Anna.”
    “I’m Joe. Are