Into the Light (The Light, #1)(98)

Why hadn’t I thought of that? Woodward goes straight from Highland Heights to Bloomfield Hills.

I rolled my eyes. “Have you been talking to Dylan?”

“Me? No. Why?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. I’ll call after I have a look around. While I’m up there, do you want me to check out the MOA house?”

“No. You have enough things going on with this story. You don’t need another. Besides, there’s no reason to think it’s connected.”

“You’re right. I’m overly suspicious of everything. It’s the whole compilation theory.”

“Compilation?” he asked.

“Like everything is a piece of something bigger. I think I’m trying to fit everything together when they don’t fit.”

Foster’s voice softened. “I just picked up a story about a teacher at East Grove. A mother claims she saw inappropriate pictures on her daughter’s phone. If you’d like to take that, I’ll take this over. I can tell it’s wearing on you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to give it up. I feel like I’m so close. I just need one break.”

“OK, the offer stands.”

I smiled at my friend as I gathered my things.

Driving on I-75 to Bloomfield Hills, I remembered my conversation with Dina Rosemont and how impressed I’d been with her strength and determination. She had said she would never give up her search, and from the sound of her voice I believed her. We both knew the statistics weren’t in Mindy’s favor and got worse the longer she stayed missing. I shook my head, thinking how it had been over two months. I didn’t know if the story I was researching would help her or help us learn about her, but my gut told me it would. That was why I couldn’t hand it over to Foster. Even so, Bernard had given me only until the end of October. That was less than three weeks. I needed to learn something, soon.

Dina told me that she’d received a phone call from a woman who had seen one of the flyers she’d hung. The woman wouldn’t give her name, but said that as a mother she needed to call. Apparently the caller lived near Woodward Avenue and Eastways Road, and there was a wooded area near her home where her children liked to play. A private airstrip was located there too.

The caller admitted that a twelve-and thirteen-year-old weren’t the most reliable witnesses, and though she didn’t want them personally involved, she felt compelled to share what they had told her. Even before the caller heard about Mindy on the news, her children had told her a story about a man carrying a woman from a truck to a plane. The woman calling admitted that because her children had been known to be imaginative, she hadn’t paid much attention to their story. She’d figured there could be any number of good reasons why they thought they’d seen what they described. However, once Mindy’s picture appeared on TV, her children brought up the story again. Even then, they only told the story; they didn’t mention the connection. It wasn’t until they were out one day and saw one of the flyers that her thirteen-year-old daughter pointed at Mindy’s picture and specifically said, “Mom, that’s the lady who couldn’t walk, so they carried her on the plane.”

My heart stopped as I asked what they’d meant by couldn’t walk. Dina said she’d asked too. The woman hadn’t known. After they hung up, the woman had asked her children and called Dina back. Her children told her the woman had been sleeping.

Dina said she’d called the detective in charge of the investigation, and he’d said he’d look into it, but she wanted me to know. I’d looked up private airstrips, but the ones I’d found weren’t in the area the woman had indicated. That was the main reason I was driving north on I-75.

Exiting the interstate, I made my way into Bloomfield Hills. As I drove around the beautiful area, I thought about Foster’s suggestion that Dylan could afford a home here. Honestly, it was too bad that he and I together couldn’t afford one. Though I wasn’t ready for full-time cohabitation, as I drove the curvy roads around the majestic homes I found myself imagining the interiors with a very nice shelf for Fred’s bowl.

The last known address of Uriel Harris wasn’t one of the big homes lining the hilly streets. The address took me instead to a large solid gate. Shrugging, I parked my car, walked up to a box beside the gate, and pushed the button.

A man’s voice came from the box. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Uriel Harris.”

“You have the wrong address.”

I knew I didn’t. “Maybe I have his old address. Can you tell me how long you’ve lived here?”

“This is private property. I suggest you leave.”

Well, that was rude.

“Thank you for your time,” I said as I released the button.

Going back to my car, I grabbed my Nikon and walked the perimeter along the front wrought-iron fence. It didn’t seem to matter where I tried—I couldn’t see the house, or even get past the trees to take a picture. Though most leaves were gone, this property was lined with rows of pine trees, creating a living wall beyond the fence. Not only couldn’t I see the house, I couldn’t even get a feel for the size of the property. Still I snapped a few pictures here and there.

I hoped that once I downloaded the photographs, I would be able to enlarge them and make out more than I could see in person. When I reached the end of the front fence, I saw that the angle of the side fence indicated that the property was wider in the back. As I took a few more pictures, I decided I should get the schematic of the property from the assessor, but first I’d try Google Earth.