“For these projects of his,” Bree says, “how long would he be gone?”
“One or two days, tops,” says Melissa. “And like I said, he always stayed in touch, even if it was just by text. But three days without any contact? That’s never happened.”
Alex waves his hand around the room. “What about here in the apartment? Is there anything missing that might suggest where he was going?”
“Not that I can tell,” says Melissa. “I tried tracking his phone,but he often turns it to DND or puts it in airplane mode to save battery. The last place it showed up was here, but I haven’t seen it or his laptop.” Suddenly, she stands up. “Hold on! I just thought of something.”
Melissa heads toward the kitchen. Alex and Bree hop off the sofa and follow.
“I never go back here,” says Melissa over her shoulder as she opens the door to a small mudroom behind the kitchen. It’s cluttered with extra furniture, athletic equipment, and storage boxes, so crowded that Melissa has to work her way past a stack of rusted lawn chairs to get in.
“What are you looking for?” asks Bree from the doorway.
“Damon always takes the shuttle bus to campus,” says Melissa. “But his bike is missing.”
Not much to go on. But it’s the first clue they’ve found.
CHAPTER 17
BACK IN THE LIVING ROOM, Melissa apologizes again. “I am so sorry. I should have called you guys right away. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“We wish you had,” says Bree. “It might have made a difference.”
The first forty-eight hours after a crime are called the “golden hours,” the time to process the scene, find witnesses, and secure evidence before it goes cold or gets contaminated. After those first two days go by, it’s harder and harder to pick up the threads of a case. And once a case truly goes cold, the odds of getting it solved are only about one in five.
Bad odds.
Melissa glances at her watch. “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to get to class. But why don’t I arrange for us to meet with some of Damon’s and my friends tonight? They’re grad students too. Maybe together we can shake something out. Somebody might remember something.”
“Sounds good to me,” says Bree.
“Better than nothing,” adds Alex.
Melissa taps her forehead, thinking. “How about the Grotto Tavern on West Franklin?”
Bree nods. “We’ll be there.”
“Great. See you tonight,” says Melissa. And she’s out the door.
Alex watches Melissa get in her car and pull away. He turns to Bree. “What do you think?”
Bree doesn’t hesitate. “I think she knows more than she’s telling us.”
CHAPTER 18
THE OFFICE OF THE investigative unit of the Chapel Hill Police Department looks like a hundred other stations Alex Cross has been in over the years: The same shoulder-high cubicles, bulletin boards, filing cabinets, and whiteboards with scribbled notes. The same smell of stale coffee.
Detective Hugh Malone, a sturdy-looking guy in a crisp white shirt and a blue necktie with dark brown hair cut high and short, seems a little surprised when Alex and Bree show up unannounced, badges out. But he’s not entirely unprepared, having gotten a heads-up from Chief Amberson about Damon.
“I didn’t know when you’d be coming,” Malone says, glancing down at some notes. “Are you sure you can’t think of any legitimate reason for Damon to be away? Field trip? Research? Graduate students do a lot of projects off campus and in the community.”
“He would have told someone,” says Alex. “We haven’t heard from him for a week, and his last texts and calls to his girlfriend were more than three days ago.”
“And there was nothing in those earlier messages that worried you?”
“Nothing,” says Bree. “All normal.”
Malone checks his notes again. “And what about the girlfriend? Melissa Lange?”
