Page 20

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Keller arrives at Santa Clara University, pulls Pops’s old Buick into a space on the top floor of the concrete parking structure. The university’s police force—called Campus Safety Services—is housed on the lower level, the station house literally built into the parking garage. Life as a cop. On TV, the Bureau’s offices are always sleek—clusters of good-looking agents working in high-tech facilities where information on perps and clues pops up on giant screens at the tap of the quirky tech person’s keyboard. The reality is that most offices have the look and feel of the DMV. The typical agent isn’t an underwear model, either. And the technology, well, calling it outdated is charitable. Even the New York field office, one of the most sought-after assignments in federal law enforcement, is drab and no-frills. So it should be no surprise a campus police force is tucked in the bottom of a parking garage, the entrance covered by a faded red awning.

Keller displays her badge to the receptionist and she’s quickly swept into a conference room with a smattering of campus officers who wear bright-colored uniforms. An authoritative man—the only Black man in the group, who wears plain clothes but has the unmistakable carriage of a career cop—sees Keller and comes over. Jay McCray gives her a firm handshake, says he’s the chief. He then introduces her to two shift supervisors and a fit-looking man with the Santa Clara city police. It’s a strong turnout for a Saturday morning.

“Veronica picked the wrong week to have that baby,” McCray says, referring to the Bureau’s campus liaison who Keller is filling in for. “As she’d tell you, we welcome the Bureau’s help on this, all egos checked at the door.”

The others nod. It’s sincere, and it was nice of him to say. Another thing TV gets wrong is the trope that local law enforcement hate when the Feds arrive. They know the Bureau has massive resources they do not.

Keller eyes the whiteboard in the back of the room that’s already becoming a crime wall. Pinned at the top are four computer printouts—photographs of the missing students, probably from their student IDs.

Under the photos are tiny magnets for posting clues as they come in. Nothing’s hanging there yet.

“Here’s what we know,” Chief McCray says in clipped cop speak. “The capstones for the freshmen hosted small-group dinners for Parents Weekend.” The chief gestures to the photos on the whiteboard. “These four were set to meet their parents last night at nineteen hundred hours.” McCray pauses. “None of them showed.”

“So they’ve been missing for less than fifteen hours,” Keller says. She doesn’t need to add the rest: They’re college kids, probably sleeping one off as they speak.

“I hear you,” the chief says. “If we were talking about one student, even two, for less than twenty-four hours, you wouldn’t be here. But this is different. Four kids gone, completely off the grid. No contact with their parents and their phones are off or disabled. I’ve worked a lot with this generation, and that’s highly unusual. And there are extenuating circumstances.”

Those words again: extenuating circumstances.

“My ASAC mentioned that,” Keller says.

McCray nods. “Two of the students have parents who present unique security profiles. One of the parents is high up at the State Department, another an LA judge. Both have had threats.” McCray pauses again for effect: “So, we have what I’d call an ‘oh shit moment.’”

Keller nods.

“Not to mention we had a student die this week,” McCray adds. “Poor kid got trapped in one of the sea caves at high tide. So the pressure is on.”

Keller blows out a breath. “You’ve reached out to the phone companies?”

The chief nods. “All the devices stopped pinging around the same time, twenty-thirty, somewhere at Rancho San Antonio.”

“I’m not familiar,” Keller says. “Sorry, I don’t know the area well. I’m on temp assignment from the New York field office.”

“It’s a public park that has miles of hiking trails, some that lead to the summit of Black Mountain.”

“So, we may be dealing with an impromptu camping trip?”

“Let’s hope,” McCray says. “But something feels off. No vehicle associated with the students is parked in the Rancho San Antonio lots. And while cell service can be spotty out there, it seems likely that at least one of them would have checked in with their parents. We’re working only with the quick, critical missing cell phone data reports. We’ve requested more detailed cell data that will hopefully give us more on the route they took, whether they were all together, and where exactly their phones went silent. It’s a Saturday and the phone companies have protocols when there’s no warrant, so it’s taking longer than I’d like.”

Keller nods. “My office can request location data from Google. It’s more accurate than cell pings.”

“Excellent.”

Keller isn’t sure that calling in the cavalry is necessary, not yet, anyway. But she understands. The situation is weird; her gut tells her this isn’t just a simple prank or spontaneous off-the-grid camping trip. And the university is under additional pressure since it’s Parents Weekend.

“This park, how large of an area are we talking about?” Keller asks, thinking about a search.

“Rancho San Antonio? Massive. Thirty miles of hiking trails alone. We’ve got teams searching by foot and by drone.”

The chief explains they’ve also pulled access control data, which will show any time the students used their security passes to enter the dorms and other buildings. They also have a team gathering video from all campus CCTV cameras. And his team is working with the resident director of the dorm to search the students’ rooms. There’s a BOLO out to all area law enforcement for the students.

Keller nods. McCray knows what he’s doing.

“Tell me more about the kids of the parents with security details,” she says.

The chief exhales loudly.

“Blane Roosevelt,” he points to a photo on the whiteboard. The student has longish hair and an impish grin. “His mother, Cynthia Roosevelt, is the assistant secretary of state. Apparently she has a bounty on her head from a foreign entity.”

“A bounty?”

He nods, fills her in on his discussions with Roosevelt’s detail, explains that eight years ago Blane Roosevelt was abducted by civilians trying to get to his mother. “It didn’t work out for the perps,” McCray says. “A special ops team rescued the boy and took them out. They’re obviously looking into any connection to that mess, but Cynthia Roosevelt’s detail is skeptical.”

Keller examines the crime wall again. It must’ve been traumatizing for this kid, but you wouldn’t know it from his photo.

“Libby Akana,” McCray continues, this time pointing to a photo of a young woman with long dark hair and a beaming smile. “Did you follow the Rock Nelson trial on TV?”

“Can’t say that I did.”

“You can google it, but it was a big celebrity trial. Her father is Ken Akana, the judge in the case. He got some threats after the verdict against the movie star.”

Keller nods, says, “You seem to have this under control, Chief McCray.” She’s not trying to flatter. It’s true.

“Call me Jay.”

“What can the Bureau do to help?” Keller still isn’t sure if she’s here to lead or merely provide support, and it’s better to respect the team that’s been running point. Particularly when they know what they’re doing.

“If you can talk to Assistant Secretary of State Roosevelt,” he says the title with exaggerated enunciation, “that would help. She doesn’t want to deal with the local yokels.”

“Is she here?”

Chief McCray shakes his head, displays a cellular phone, cheap and plastic and of the burner phone variety.

“Roosevelt’s security lead gave me this,” he says, frowning. “They’re waiting on your call. Said the number is saved on the device.” He hands it over.

Keller finds the contacts. There is indeed only one number saved. She maneuvers the toggle so it highlights the number and clicks.

A stern voice answers. “With whom am I speaking?”

“Special Agent Sarah Keller,” she replies. “With whom am I—”

“Listen carefully,” the man interrupts.

Keller is tempted to protest, but she’s of the get-more-flies-with-honey school, at least in the beginning of an investigation. She listens as the voice instructs her to walk out of the police station and head across campus and over to the Bronco Suites, about a seven-minute walk. She’ll receive further instructions, so keep the phone nearby.

Someone’s been watching too many movies, Keller thinks as the line goes dead.