Two Girls Down(9)

Vega actually didn’t mind reporters or the twenty-four-hour cycle. In the best circumstances they helped her and the cops she worked with, circulated names and photos of the missing so often that a viable tip was bound to come through. It didn’t matter that she was only one person—there were a hundred senior citizens and amateur detectives online who were happy to help catch a pervert or a criminal. But news outfits could also clog up good leads, spread bad information, start witch hunts. Then they were just dumb dogs ripping up a nice lawn, and Vega knew not to tempt them in the first place.

About ten of them came toward her, all wearing jeans and fleece or windbreakers, except one of the women with a suit, neatly highlighted blond hair, and a mask of makeup that suggested she was the on-location correspondent. The rest Vega suspected were producers, looking for a peek into the house, or at least an emotional sound bite from a family friend. They started asking her questions, but Vega moved along and didn’t even look at them.

“Excuse me, Miss…Ma’am—”

“Are you a friend of Jamie Brandt’s?”

“This could help Kylie and Bailey—”

As soon as Vega hit the curb she left them behind since they couldn’t cross the property line; she walked up the drive to the house, a ranch-style place in some disrepair surrounded by a brown lawn. Motion lights came on as she approached the door and rang the bell.



A woman answered, in her seventies, well-dressed with gold jewelry and tasteful makeup, her white hair cut short and styled into a wave. The news crews started babbling as soon as they saw her.

“Miss Shambley, a statement for the eleven o’clock—”

“Can we talk to Jamie—”

“What’s the latest, Maggie?”

The woman, Jamie’s aunt, Maggie Shambley, was nervous, didn’t know where her eyes should land as they jumped from the reporters back to Vega.

“I’m Alice Vega,” Vega said, taking the older woman’s soft hand and shaking it, trying to hitch her attention.

“Hi, Maggie Shambley. Come in, quick.”

Maggie stepped aside.

Vega followed her inside and shut the front door, saw beige carpeting and tan walls, plaid-patterned living room furniture, smelled the stale smell of cigarettes and pizza hanging in the air.

There was a man sitting in a recliner, balding, overweight, who blinked at Vega like he couldn’t quite see her. Then his eyes went back to the television screen, to a basketball game with the sound off. A woman came from another room, tall but hunched over, wearing a pinkish tracksuit. She looked to be the same age as Maggie Shambley but had not turned out as well. She was like the Maggie Shambley that had been left out in the sun.

“Those idiots still out there?” the tall woman said.

“This is Alice Vega,” said Maggie, ignoring her question. “This is my sister, Gail, and her husband, Arlen White, Jamie’s parents. Jamie’s staying here for the time being.”

Vega shook their hands. Arlen White did not stand, so she hovered over his recliner.

“You want something to drink, kitchen’s right through there,” said Gail White.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Let’s sit,” said Maggie.



She and Gail White sat on the couch. Vega sat on the ottoman, facing the three of them.

“You’ll forgive my manners,” said Gail. “Or lack thereto. I am beat down tired.”

She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the end table and lit one.

“It’s been a hard couple days for everyone,” said Maggie.

“I’m sure,” said Vega.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” said Maggie.

“Which one is this again?” Arlen asked Maggie.

“This is Alice Vega. She finds missing persons.”

“We talked to a lot of police already,” said Gail.

“I’m not with the police,” said Vega.

“Who are you with?”

“She’s a private investigator,” Maggie said to Gail, the tiniest edge in her voice, which made Vega think of a florist snipping a bud off a stem. “She has an excellent reputation.”

“Well, great,” said Gail. “There’s been a lot of police, and they haven’t done a damn thing.”

“I understand. Could I please speak to Jamie?”

“She’s in the shower,” said Gail, pissed.

“She’ll be out in a minute,” said Maggie, talking over her sister. “We didn’t know when you’d be here exactly—”

Gail stood and went to the kitchen, which Vega could see from the living room over a countertop covered with papers. Vega watched Gail make a drink. Vodka from the freezer and Fresca from the fridge.

“She doesn’t need to answer more questions,” Gail said. “What’s the use of that, exactly?”

“You’re not with the police?” Arlen said from the recliner.

“No, she’s not with the goddamn police, Arlen,” Gail snapped. She came back into the living room. Vega could hear the ice cubes knocking the edge of her glass. “She’s a detective.”

A phone rang.

“Get it, Arlen,” said Gail.

Arlen picked up a cordless phone from his lap and began talking into it.