Page 51 of The Perfect Betrayal

“That we shouldn’t drive to the marina,” she said. “We can have someone check his slip. But if he’s out to sea already, we need another way to get to him. I say we go to King Harbor,which is much closer to us, and go from there to catch him. Have any recommendations for our best option?”

“I do,” he said, pulling out onto the street. “We’ll catch a ride with the Coast Guard. Those guys move pretty fast. It’s our best chance to make up time.”

“Great,” Jessie said.

What she didn’t add was the concern bubbling in the back of her mind: what if they were already out of time?

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Monica Silver sat in a lounge chair on the deck of the Bodacious Tata, waiting for the sunrise.

It was so peaceful at this time of the morning. The waves were rocking gently. She had a perfect view of the coastline to the east, where the first morning rays sun would soon peek over the hills.

She hadn’t had much time for peace lately. But she would soon. Her work was almost done. She had some regrets, notably that she wouldn’t be able to get to either Archie Crittendon or Jackson Dwyer. The trackers that she put on both their cars indicated that they’d each gone to law enforcement locations overnight, which was a sure sign that they knew they were in imminent danger. She had to accept that they were out of her reach.

But that was okay, because she already had the big fish here with her now. And she could take her time with him. Joel Cisco was currently below deck, roofied into unconsciousness, and tied to a chair. She’d tossed his cell phone in the ocean and turned off the boat’s AIS beacon. She’d wake him up soon, once the sun began to rise, so that their final act could begin.

She allowed herself a moment to appreciate the work she’d already done. She couldn’t really relish the accomplishments, as her work wasn’t for pleasure, but rather justice. She wasn’thappyabout what she’d done, so much as satisfied. She hoped that wherever her sister was, Heather was feeling some measure of satisfaction too.

It was a long time coming. After she’d returned from her academic research trip to the Amazon three years ago, she gone straight to L.A. to find out why Heather had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. But the police officer she spoke to wasno help. It was obvious that she would have to pursue Heather’s disappearance on her own. So she did exactly that.

First, she switched from the master’s program that she was about to start at Johns Hopkins to one at Loyola Marymount, which was ecstatic to have her. She got an apartment near the school and then proceeded to use every non-academic moment to figure out what had happened to Heather.

She started with what she knew, which wasn’t much. In their last conversation, Heather had mentioned that until she got a job, she planned to stay at a hostel to keep costs low. Her one priority was to find a place within walking distance of the ocean.

So Monica made a list of every hostel that ran along the Southern California coast, starting at Point Mugu in Malibu and going all the way south along the oceanfront to Long Beach, a distance of over 75 miles. She also included cheap motels along the same route just to be safe.

Then she started looking. Every free moment she had, she would visit these places and show the staff there pictures of Heather in the hope that someone would recognize her. After Malibu turned up nothing, she moved south to Santa Monica, followed by Venice, Marina del Rey, Playa del Rey, El Segundo, and Manhattan Beach.

That process took two and a half years and turned up nothing. Between hostels and motels, she had visited over two hundred locations without a single hit. She completed her master’s degree in that time, which was both a blessing and a curse.

She’d been offered a job with a top research facility researching biodiversity in the Southern Hemisphere. But it meant relocating to Florida. She sank into what she eventually realized was a deep depression when she processed the truth: accepting the position would essentially mean giving up on any hope of finding Heather, either alive, or more likely dead.

That was when she visited, almost as an afterthought, a hostel just off the Hermosa Beach Pier. She still remembered that day six months ago, when the on-duty manager had casually said, “oh yeah, I remember her.”

“You do?” Monica replied, stunned.

“Yeah,” replied the middle-aged guy with the paunch and sun-bleached blond hair. “I can’t recall her name, “but she was definitely here. She was nice.”

“How do you remember someone who stayed here three years ago?”

“Because she pre-paid for her bed in the dorm for two full weeks,” he explained, “but she left before the second week was up. She didn’t ask for a refund or anything. Everyone who stays at places like this is on a budget. No one would just leave money on the table, uncollected. She even left some clothes and toiletries behind. I was surprised.”

“Did you try to find out what happened?” Monica asked.

“I asked some of the gals who shared the room with her, but they didn’t seem to know anything.”

“Didn’tseemto?” Monica said.

“They were from Brazil and my Portuguese is non-existent so I might have missed something in translation.”

“Do you remember any other details?” Monica pressed. “Did she indicate where she hoped to move? Any job prospects? Or guys she liked?”

The manager’s face lit up.

“Actually now that you mention it, she did say she thought she was on the verge of getting a job,” he said. “She said that she was interning as a cook at a nearby restaurant—what do they call that?”

“Staging?” Monica offered.

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