North Country(58)

I curse. Not because I was hoping to pin a crime on the guy, but Jordan Reeves was our main lead into Holly’s disappearance. He’s the one Kiera and Reagan—the girls with Holly Friday night—identified from the pictures we showed them.

“Reeves admitted to thinking she was pretty and flirting with her, but the moment he realized how young she was, he got the hell out of there. The officers questioning him seemed to think he was telling the truth.”

“That or he’s a really good liar.” But if Jordan Reeves is innocent, we’re back to square one.

The last twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind of activity. Every available officer of mine showed up to help canvass, along with Cold River’s firefighters. By the time CIB arrived, we had already lifted the company names for the three transport trucks parked overnight at the Bale House off security footage from a gas station across the road and were making calls. Thanks to installed GPS trackers on the trucks, we had the drivers’ names and employee photos quickly, as well as their exact locations. By last night, various jurisdictions had located all of them for us.

All their stories checked out.

“Did Reeves say what happened after he left Holly? Where she went?” I ask.

“According to him, he got in his truck and locked the doors. When he checked out the window, he didn’t see her anywhere, but it was dark and the lighting isn’t great. He went to sleep and that was that.”

“She could have been sitting on those pallets where they found her phone,” I think out loud, before asking, “And he didn’t hear anything. No shouts or screams? No fight?”

“Nothing, but he said he’s a deep sleeper and he had earplugs in. Still had them in his pocket. None of the truckers heard anything other than the usual noise from the bar. Oh, except for that older guy, who said he woke up to a pack of coyotes in the field. Sounded like they’d caught a cat or—”

“Rabbit.” I grimace. “We found what was left of it while they were canvassing.”

“There you go, then. But no female screams.”

“Which means Holly likely knew and trusted the person who took her.”

“Or they came up from behind, knocked her out, carried her off.”

“Possibly. Maybe that’s how she lost her earring.”

“If it’s hers,” Schmidt counters.

“It’s hers.” Detective Constable Ethan Terry, the second member of the CIB unit sent here by regional command, pushes through the cracked door, followed closely by Mike. “Forensics just called. The DNA on the earring matches the sample Holly’s mom gave us,” the youthful detective announces while chomping on gum. I’d put him at no more than thirty-five, with a perpetually playful glint in his eye that I find annoying.

“That was fast.” And the answer I was both dreading and expecting.

“That’s because I made sure they marked it a priority.” Terry sounds bored and arrogant. I’m not going to enjoy working with him, but it doesn’t matter, as long as he’s good at his job .

“Any word from Thunder Bay?” Mike asks.

While Schmidt gives them the update, I check my phone and see texts from Isla and Dillon, both asking for information I can’t share, as well as a voicemail from Matt, wanting to know when he might be able to open the Bale House again so he can let his staff know.

“So, we’ve got nothing to go on, is what you’re saying.” Mike rubs his eyes. I doubt he’s caught much sleep. But none of us have.

“How long before we can give the Bale House back to the owner?” I ask.

“Yumi’s finished up with the parking lot,” Terry confirms. “There wasn’t much to work with. Mostly cigarette butts. One used condom, but she says it looks like it’s been out there a few weeks, at least.”

“Not a surprise.” People sometimes have sex back there. Usually in their vehicles.

“She’s working on the dumpsters now. She’s already found traces of blood on the fork pocket. It looks like someone tried to wipe it clean. We’ll see if it’s a match to Holly.”

Schmidt’s focus turns to Mike. “What about witnesses?”

“Kitchen staff was all gone by 11:45 p.m., except for the dishwasher. He said he saw Holly and her friends back there when he went out for a smoke—”

“What time?” Terry interrupts.

Mike falters. He would have gotten to that without being prompted. “Twelve twenty a.m.”

Terry scribbles the time down on his notepad. “Continue.”

My sergeant’s jaw clenches. “He said there was no sign of Holly when he clocked out at two. The last of the servers left by 2:30 a.m. and they didn’t see anybody. The owner, Matt, and a server named Shawna were the last out the door. They locked up at three and left in his vehicle together.”

“So, besides the truck driver who says he thinks it was before one when he left her but can’t be sure of the exact time, and her friends who we saw leaving the parking lot at 12:35 a.m., the dishwasher was the last person to see her alive,” Terry murmurs, writing dishwasher on his notepad under WITNESSES .

I know the guy in question—a gangly nineteen-year-old kid named Stephen and one of Matt’s most reliable staff.

“What about the motel?” Schmidt asks. “She could have gone around that side of the building and ended up in one of those rooms?”