Santa Rosa County, Florida
Creed slowed the Jeep down as he searched for the entrance of the Monroe family’s neighborhood. The pine trees along the highway were too thick to see what was on the other side, but he knew it wasn’t far from where they’d searched yesterday.
Housing developments seemed to spring up in pockets of what he used to consider forest. Though the neighborhood they were looking for was two or three decades old.
He was glad to have Jason and Scout along. His eyes kept darting up to the rearview mirror, checking on Grace. Other than being overly excited, she appeared to be physically back to her old self. Despite his best efforts, he felt the tension in his back, stiff and tight against the seat. He knew he was still healing, and maybe he expected that Grace was, too.
“Taylor’s in-laws live on the opposite side,” Jason interrupted Creed’s thoughts. He gestured with his mechanical thumb to the opposite side of the highway.
There was a recent development with paved streets that seemed to go to nowhere. Many of the lots were empty, some in the process of construction and others still being cleared. Only a sprinkling of big houses could be seen from the highway. Backhoes and bulldozers, along with pallets of construction material, filled some of the vacant areas.
“They’ve really cut deep into the forest,” Creed said.
It reminded him of the challenges it took to make a living space in this part of the country. Their facility, K9 CrimeScents, was only about ten miles away. It backed to the Blackwater River State Forest, and woods still surrounded the fifty-acre training facility, that was also their home.
When they bought the property, the massive colonial-style house was the only structure there. He and Hannah cleared acres of trees and shrubs to add a condo-style kennel with a loft apartment for Creed. Over the years, they added a double-wide trailer for on-site handlers. It was now Jason and Scout’s home. Then came a fieldhouse with an Olympic-sized swimming pool for water training the dogs. Last, they added a medical clinic with a surgical suite.
He was proud of what they’d created, but they’d always tried to preserve as much of the nature around them as they could. Developers like this one took the easy route and simply bulldozed swatches of land until it was almost unrecognizable.
“The houses are massive,” Jason told him. “The Ramseys have a screened enclosure with a pool and patio that looks like a resort. They have what must be three lots. Pick of the litter, so to speak.” He glanced at Creed. “They own the land. Ramsey construction is the developer.”
“So, you’ve been invited inside?”
“Yeah, right.” Jason laughed, but it was more of a scoff than humor. “Taylor showed me the photos from some architectural magazine that featured it.”
Creed only nodded and stayed quiet. He knew Taylor’s mother-in-law, Dora Ramsey, had been reluctant to give up custody of Taylor’s son. He’d listened to Jason talk about her battle against “the high-priced lawyers” and the judge who was a long-time friend of the family. The Ramseys had enough money and influence to get the outcome they wanted no matter what Taylor did.
Dora Ramsey had even driven Hannah to frustration. Hannah had been dealing with the woman all summer after Dora had given the Segway House a generous donation. For Hannah to complain about any donor meant the woman must be a challenge.
Finally, Creed found the entrance he was looking for. A crooked sign on a leaning post marked the neighborhood as Woodriver. Ironically, it was directly opposite of the new development’s entrance. The huge archway’s crisp and bold lettering announced Linden Estates.
As Creed drove through Woodriver’s streets, he couldn’t help thinking how different the two were. Here, the lots were small, with patches of grass for front yards. Vehicles were parked along the streets, interspersed with trashcans waiting at the end of driveways to be emptied or pulled back. It made some spots a tight squeeze.
No two houses looked alike, although most were single story. There were also some double-wide trailers with underpinnings neatly wrapped around the bottoms. Toys and bicycles spilled out onto the front yards and in the driveways.
He found the Monroe’s house easily, only because two Santa Rosa County sheriff department SUVs were parked in front of the single-story clapboard. The detached garage set all the way to the back of the property, leaving plenty of driveway. And yet, the minivan looked squished between a chain-link fence and the large crew cab pickup with Monroe Landscaping printed on the door. Attached to the hitch was a trailer overloaded with assorted equipment, bags of fertilizer, and rolls of sod.
“How long has this kid been missing?” Jason asked.
“I’m not sure anyone knows exactly. But he’s been gone two nights.”
Sheriff Norwich stood on the small porch. She waved when she recognized Creed’s Jeep. The first available space for him to park was two houses down. But he noticed in passing what looked like a flicker of relief cross her face.
She glanced back at her deputies, one coming out to join her, the other filling the front doorway. She said something to them, and they headed to their vehicle. Norwich had waited a beat longer on the porch. She flinched when the door slammed shut behind her. Then she made her way down the steps and over to greet the dog handlers.
“She doesn’t look happy.” Jason’s eyes followed Norwich. She walked across lawns to cut a path to them.
“No, she doesn’t. Stay here and keep the dogs settled,” Creed told Jason. “Let me see what’s going on.”
He met her at the tailgate of the Jeep. Norwich kept her back to the Monroe house. Her face sagged. She looked tired, and it was still morning.
“They claimed they got a text from Caleb just before we arrived.” She didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm or her disbelief. “Said he was staying with a friend. They showed me the text.”
Creed stood at the Jeep’s hitch and faced her while, behind his sunglasses, his eyes scanned the Monroe house. Even though Norwich stayed on the curb, he was taller than her and had a perfect view of the front of the house and most of the side. A curtain rustled in a window toward the back. Someone was still watching them.
“Have you checked phone records?” Creed asked, his eyes darting between the windows and the front door. “If we knew where his phone last pinged...what tower. Maybe what area, at least...”
“That takes time,” she started to gesture, then crossed her arms over her chest. Norwich knew she was being watched. “I barely had a missing teenager. At best, a runaway one. Or at the very least, one who’s allegedly run away before. The parents now say he’s fine. What am I going to do? Argue with them? I don’t have the time or resources to play these games.”
They stood silent while cars drove by and neighbors looked to see why sheriff vehicles were parked in their neighborhood.
“I don’t feel good about this,” Norwich confessed.
“We’ve got the dogs here. We could do an unofficial search,” he offered.
“That’s the other thing. He wants no dogs on his property.”
“He said that?”
“He said that.”
He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head to meet her eyes. Her face softened, and she leaned forward. “Look, this isn’t worth your dogs getting hurt. I’ll follow up on this. If he’s not in school Monday, they’ll have some explaining to do.”
She pursed her lips and stopped herself from looking back over her shoulder. Her cell phone rang, and she snatched it from her pocket to look at the caller I.D.
“Hang on a minute,” she told Creed. She took the call, saying very little, mostly listening. “Okay then,” she finally said. “Thanks for being so quick.”
She slipped the phone away and glanced in the back window of the Jeep. Then to Creed she said, “You brought Grace and Scout. I’ve got you all scheduled. I know you were prepared to do a missing person search. Is it difficult to switch up?”
His first reaction was to tell her, “Yes. It would be too difficult.” He had already gone through all sorts of arguments with himself this morning before deciding this search—a neighborhood search for a missing teenager—would be low impact, low risk for Grace.
“Depends,” he finally said. “What are we talking about, Sheriff?”
“That bone Bolo alerted to yesterday. Chipped and chewed up a bit, but it turns out it is human. A left tibia.”