Page 55

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

THE KELLERS

Back at the station, Keller and McCray report in to the task force, try to make sense of their limited clues. The bullpen is overrun by Bureau agents and local law enforcement, so they camp out in McCray’s large office; the task force might have largely marginalized the pair, but it’s still McCray’s station house.

“They released all of Natasha Belov’s effects to her family? Before the final coroner’s report?” Keller says.

“My contact at Santa Cruz PD said it’s protocol. No signs of foul play. And her family was heading out of the country and wanted her things.”

“Shoddy. They shouldn’t have released Natasha’s phone, they shouldn’t—”

Keller’s interrupted by the chime of a FaceTime call. Bob’s smiling profile pic appears on the screen.

“Do you mind if I take this?” Keller asks McCray. “In case it’s about my father-in-law?” The concern for Pops is true enough. But after this long day, she just needs a dose of Bob.

“Of course. Want me to step out?” He gestures to the door.

“No need, assuming you don’t mind witnessing some embarrassing marital talk.”

“I have plenty of experience with that.”

Keller answers and a woman’s voice comes through the phone. “Hey-ee,” she says.

“Janet! You made it!”

Bob’s sister gives a Cheshire cat grin. “I couldn’t miss seeing you and the kids.” She glances at someone off-screen. “And Dad and this goon.”

Bob’s head appears in the frame. They couldn’t look more different: Janet, a stylish Asian woman with severe bangs; Bob, a bald white guy in need of a shave.

Keller says, “I have my colleague here and don’t have much time to talk.” She directs her phone at McCray, who waves.

“Well, hell-o,” Janet says playfully. “Is he single?”

Keller shakes her head in apology at McCray, and she swears he’s blushing.

“I’m so sorry, I won’t be home until late,” Keller says. “How long are you here?”

“I head out after my meetings tomorrow. But no worries. I totally understand. I’ve been watching the news…” She doesn’t need to explain more. “But we can chat in the morning. Or maybe we’ll be up when you get home.”

“You’re staying at the house?” Keller says, surprised, thinking Janet would prefer one of the expensive hotels her clients put her up in. “We took your room. We can go down to the basement with the kids and—”

“Don’t be silly. I love the old sofa. Brings back my teenage years of coming home late and passing out. And I couldn’t subject you to Bob’s old room, given all the ungodly things he did down there. Frankly, I can’t believe you let your children near that room. If you had a blacklight it would—”

“All right,” Bob cuts in. “We’ll let you get back to work. Nice to meet you, Jay,” he says loudly. “You both be careful out there.” It’s a line he stole from an old TV cop show.

“Sorry about that,” she says to Jay.

“What a lovely family,” is all he says.

There’s a knock on the door. Annie the Intern peers through the glass.

McCray waves her inside.

“Hi, um, I found something and I think it could be important.”

“What is it?” McCray says.

Keller holds back a smile. The intern and her infectious enthusiasm remind Keller of a young detective named Atticus she worked with, who was taken from the world too soon.

“So, I’ve been going through Rizz like Agent Sarah, I mean, Special Agent Keller asked.” She gestures at the computer on McCray’s desk, silently asking permission to use it. McCray gets out of his chair, and Annie takes his seat and pecks on the keys. “Then my dad called and wanted to know what’s for dinner and I said, ‘How would I know? Make your own dinner.’” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “And my sister is in the background and she says something about all the TikTokers reporting on the case and wants to know what’s happening.” Annie looks up from the screen and gives them a serious look. “Of course, I told her this is official police business and I can’t tell her anything.”

Keller considers pushing her along, asking her to get to the point, but she realizes it will be faster to let the young woman go through her process.

“But then I get to thinking. I’ve been focused on only the sites, not TikTok or podcasts, so I go in deep .” She taps the keys one last time, then displays her hands at the screen: voilà. She beams. “I love working on this. I think, like, I’ve found what I’m supposed to do with my life.”

A voice comes from the computer speaker: “Is the disappearance a hoax?”

On the screen, a young guy—he can’t be more than fifteen—faces the camera. He has shoulder-length brown hair under large headphones, one of those microphones with a foam-covered head close to his face. “I’m Ziggy de la Cruz, and this is The Treehouse podcast.”

After some intro music and opening credits, the young host continues: “We’ve all been following the story of the missing college students—five kids who vanished into thin air over Parents Weekend at Santa Clara University in Northern California.” The host pauses. “Social media has gone crazy with theories—they were kidnapped by a foreign government, they were sold to sex traffickers, they were murdered and dumped in the woods by a serial killer.” He pauses again. “But what if there’s no foul play here? What if this is one—big—joke?”

Keller and McCray tap eyes for a beat and continue watching.

“In a Treehouse exclusive, one of our listeners alerted us to videos posted on the popular site PrankStool that may shed light on what happened to The Five. Over the past few months, fraternity pledges Blane Roosevelt and Mark Wong apparently have posted several videos of pranks they’ve pulled in their brief time at the university. PrankStool has a policy that they will never disclose who posts, or pull down something once posted. So, the videos don’t disclose who made or posted them other than the screen name TommyBoy2029. But one of our listeners recognized Roosevelt and Wong in one of the segments. Take a look for yourself.”

The screen shows headline links for different videos:

Telling College Students They Look Like My Hot Cousin

Sniffing Strangers & Telling Them They Stink

Asking Sorority Girls Football Questions

Under each headline is a frozen screenshot of the video. A cursor moves on the screen and highlights one of the links. A video then fast-forwards, freezing on a quick shot of two smiling faces: Mark Wong and Blane Roosevelt.

The host continues: “TommyBoy2029 posted a video that raises questions of whether the disappearance of The Five is an elaborate hoax.”

Another link appears on the screen, a video titled She Thinks She Killed Her Friend Prank . The video buffers and then begins.

It shows a bonfire burning on a dark beach.

“Look what we have here,” a voice says from off-camera. “I don’t know what they took or how much they drank, but I want some of that shit.”

The screen pans the perimeter of the bonfire where two young women are passed out. It’s impossible to make out their faces.

The unseen narrator continues: “Tonight, we find out what happens if you think you killed your friend.”

A hand on the video displays what looks like a travel-size shampoo bottle. The video zooms in and the label comes into focus: STAGE BLOOD by a company called Ben Nye. “Leftovers from an epic Halloween frat party.” The bottle is jostled back and forth in the way products are displayed in Instagram reels. There’s more snickering off-camera.

Then, the camera shifts to show the back of a heavyset guy, who’s laughing like he’s inebriated, stumbling over to one of the passed-out girls. He turns, his head out of the frame, his hand displaying the bottle of stage blood again. Then he pours the red liquid over the front of the girl’s sweatshirt. He stops, then drips some in her hair.

Keller’s heart skips. “That pink hoodie, I think it’s the one Felix Goffman’s mom found in his things.”

The guy with the fake blood, still laughing, then picks up a rock, one about the size of a baked potato. He walks over to the second passed-out girl. Her face is covered by her long auburn hair. The guy carefully opens her hand. The girl stirs, and the boy—Keller’s convinced it’s Mark Wong—freezes. When the girl settles, Mark finishes uncurling her hand and places the rock in it.

Off-screen, another guy whispers loudly, “Someone’s coming.”

The heavyset guy quickly squirts what’s left in the bottle on the rock and scurries away.

The video time jumps. The camera is positioned low now, like it’s on a dune or grass, and zoomed in. It’s quiet, then Mark and whoever was filming—undoubtedly Blane Roosevelt—erupt in laughter as the girl with the rock in her hand comes to.

She staggers to her feet and releases the rock, unclear what the hell is going on. Then she sees the other girl with the fake blood all over her and releases a scream worthy of a horror movie. The terrified girl’s face is out of the frame, but Keller is fairly sure that it’s Stella Maldonado.

A voice from the dark calls out. “What’s going—?” The outline of a male form on the other side of the bonfire appears.

The video then jostles as Blane and Mark take off away from the beach, laughing like idiot drunks.

The screen goes dark.

It’s quiet in McCray’s office now.

At last, McCray asks, “What’s it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Keller says. “But look at the date and time it was posted.”

The video shows that TommyBoy2029 posted it at 11:39 p.m. last Tuesday: the last time Natasha Belov was seen alive at Panther Beach.

The heavy silence is interrupted by the ring of McCray’s phone, then the look of anguish on his face as he listens to the caller.

“Judge Akana, you need to wait for us to get there. You are not to go in.” McCray’s tone is steady but desperate.

McCray motions to Keller, says, “We need to go now.” Phone pressed to his ear, he races out of the office, Keller at his heels.