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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Keller returns to the station house. It’s getting crowded. More CSS campus officers. More Santa Clara local cops. More agents from Cynthia Roosevelt’s detail. An electric buzz charges the air. She fears there will be too many cooks in the kitchen, or whatever that expression is.

She finds Chief McCray—Jay, she reminds herself. Briefs him about the talk with Secretary Roosevelt: There’s no indication that the missing kids are connected to the bounty on Roosevelt’s head. She’s received no ransom demands. But there is this matter with the ex-husband’s unexpected appearance on campus. Right before Blane’s disappearance, no less.

“Did she give you the father’s cell number and carrier?” the chief asks.

What did law enforcement do in the days before everyone voluntarily carried a tracking device?

Keller gives him the number so they can track Hank Roosevelt’s location, see if he’s still in town. She knows divorce does strange things to people, so it’s possible the father knows where Blane is, but it’s unlikely that he’d take three other kids.

“I’d like to talk to the other parents,” Keller says.

The chief nods again. “They’re coming in. We have a room set up. I’ve made clear you’re point on the interviews.”

“Nothing so far from the search at Rancho San Antonio?” Keller knows the answer.

McCray shakes his head. “But we’ve got more CCTV.” The chief gestures her over to an officer who’s concentrating on a laptop screen at the conference room table.

“Show her,” the chief says.

The officer taps on some keys and the screen pops to the front of what looks like a dormitory. Students flow in and out.

Girls wearing pajama pants are scrolling their phones. Boys wearing T-shirts with Greek letters on them are screwing around. Her thoughts cut to Cynthia Roosevelt speculating that maybe this is a fraternity pledge prank or something. She mentions it to the chief.

“I wouldn’t take it off the table. The fraternities can be”—he pauses, searches for the word—“ creative with their pranks and whatnot. We forbid hazing, of course. But you know kids.”

“Here they are,” the officer at the computer says, pointing to the screen. The time stamp is 6:54 p.m., around the time Blane was seen on his skateboard heading to the dinner. A girl pushes out of the dormitory. She has golden brown skin, wears a shirt that reveals her midriff, and has a confident—almost confrontational—stride.

“Stella Maldonado,” the police chief says.

“She looks angry,” Keller says, examining the young woman’s body language. There’s not a clear image of her face, but there’s no mistaking that she’s furious.

The tech fast-forwards the video. A heavyset student strides out of the same building. He appears to call out to Stella.

“We’re trying to get an ID on him,” McCray adds.

“You don’t need to,” Keller says. She opens the file Cynthia Roosevelt’s chief of staff gave her. “Mark Wong. He’s in the same capstone group as the missing students.”

McCray calls over a campus officer, tells him to get over to Mark Wong’s dorm room, try to confirm his location.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” Keller asks McCray.

“Our four missing kids may be five.”

They both turn their attention back to the computer. The tech pulls up additional footage. Another young woman, another one of the photos on the crime wall, appears on the screen. Libby Akana, the judge’s daughter, looks like she’s been crying. She’s rushing somewhere.

“It’s like they were all summoned,” Keller says, thinking out loud. “Any video on where they went?”

“We lose them when they exit campus.”

Keller doesn’t know what to make of it. She needs to talk to the parents. But until they arrive, she needs to make good use of her time. In a missing persons case, every second counts. Bad news doesn’t get better over time.

“What’s near the spot they’re last seen?”

“The Hut, off Franklin.”

“Where they were supposed to go for the dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“Any frat houses nearby?”

The chief says, “There’s one on that street, the main house for Alpha Kappa.”

“Blane’s mother said that’s the one he’s pledging.” Keller decides then that she’s going to the frat house. She considers asking Jay to accompany her, but hesitates. She likes this police chief. He exudes confidence despite what Cynthia Roosevelt may think of him and the local cops. But he needs to man the fort. Maybe one of his officers can take her, they’ll surely know the grounds. Frat houses are probably on their regular beat for noise and underage drinking and the like, though maybe they don’t have jurisdiction off campus. Also, the students may instinctively shut down when they see the university involved. Keller’s father, for all his deficits, taught her a few things. One is about local counsel. He practices law in courts across the country and he told her that he’d never appear without a local lawyer by his side. Someone to advise on local customs, someone trusted by the judges and lawyers in the community.

One of their own.

That’s what Keller needs.

She eyes all the bodies in the station again. That’s when she spots her. The twentysomething young woman with the SCU sweatshirt, standing at a photocopy machine. The woman catches Keller’s glance and smiles.

“You,” Keller says.

It takes the student a moment to realize Keller is talking to her. She looks behind her to make sure.

Keller waves for her to come over. The woman still appears skeptical. She points to herself, mouths, Me?

When Keller nods, she hurries over.

“You’re a student?” Keller asks.

The girl’s eyes flash more with excitement than nervousness. She holds out her hand to give a firm shake, the way Annie was taught, which Keller likes.

“Annie Hafeez.”

“Intern?” Keller asks.

She nods.

“You know the frats?”

“Ah, yeah, I’m in a sorority and we all hang out.”

“How about Alpha Kappa?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Can you take me to their house?”

Her eyes flash again. “For sure. Which one? They have three houses.”

“The one near The Hut.”

“Hangover.”

“Pardon?”

“Hangover. That’s what everyone calls the house.”

Keller almost asks why, but decides it’s obvious.

“Show me.”

The chief, who has been quiet throughout the exchange, tilts his head to the side, silently asking Keller whether this is a good idea—involving a student.

Keller gives a firm nod. “I need local counsel.”