The Sad Girl: The Sad Girl, #1

By Bob Mueller

Twenty minutes ago, I was an ex-con with a girlfriend and a slightly successful auction business.

Then I found out I'd fathered a kid fifteen years ago. A daughter.

Then they told me she was dead, murdered by human traffickers.

Hell of a way to start the day.

Things didn't get any better when I started reading the reports. Her body was the wrong height. Her hair color was wrong. But the DNA matched. Didn't it?

Was my daughter still alive?

I'm going to have one chance to rescue the daughter I never knew, and I'm going to have to bust parole to do it. Get it right, and I'm a hero. Get it wrong, and I lose her before I've even met her.

Buy now to read this emotional thriller and find out why one reviewer said, "This should be a movie!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indefixa
• Release date: Jun 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997675306

Bob Mueller

When you get right down to it, Bob Mueller writes about emotions. He finds them in his own experiences as a divorced father and family member of a sex abuse survivor, and from the people he meets. He puts himself in someone else’s shoes, and teases out their feelings. Blending that with bits and pieces of history and life experience, he crafts a story that might have been inspired by a song, or a news article. But it’s about emotions in the end. Born in north Texas and raised in southeastern Ohio, Bob is a member of International Thriller Writers, Tulsa NightWriters and Oklahoma Writer’s Federation, a father of eight, and a pastor’s husband. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading (thrillers, historical fiction and non-fiction, and police procedurals), genealogy, and shooting. For more information, visit http://www.bobmuellerwriter.com.

Book preview

THE SAD GIRL

by Bob Mueller

Copyright © 2014 Bob Mueller

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher via http://www.indefixa.com/

Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

Written by Jim Steinman

Used by permission of Edward B. Marks Music Company on behalf of Lost Boys Music

Cover design by Yosbe Calma

Editing by Wendy C. Garfinkle and Joy Henley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This story is dedicated to the thousands of children worldwide who live with the real-life horror that I've only hinted at here. This is a work of fiction, but the reality is hideous.

Acknowledgments

This story sprang from a short story I wrote in 2008. Bryon Quetermous and Dave White were running something they called the Blogger's Fiction Project, where a bunch of bloggers would all write shorts on the same topic and post them on the same day. They invited me to join in the second one, where the topic was an object you'd find at a police auction. I'm still not quite sure how I got the basic idea for The Sad Girl out of that prompt, but it resulted in a 3,000 word short. So I have to thank Bryon and Dave for starting me down this road.

The members of Mystery Writers Forum, at http://mwf.ravensbeak.com, for an amazing amount of support. Yes, I own the forum, but they really are a great bunch of folks, both for emotional support and technical knowledge on a wide range of topics.

Likewise, the members of the Yahoo Crime Scene Writers Group. There are some amazingly talented and knowledgeable folks there who are always willing to help.

Dave Freas, who has been a thorough, patient and very kind critic, reader and friend.

Joy Henley. First she was a sounding board. Then she was a proofreader, and finally an editor. But she's always been a friend. See http://www.inkstainedediting.com/

Randy McCall, of Victim Assistance Online at http://www.vaonline.org). Victim-Assistance Online is a non-profit information, research and networking resource for victim assistance specialists, and professionals in related disciplines. Randy provided tons of great information about human trafficking.

Craig Chaddock for being my West-Coast research contact. He pointed me to and gave me much information about San Diego, his current home, and was a great source of ideas as well.

Anna Aucoin, Assistant to the Director of the Louisiana Cemetery Board. She was very patient about answering my emailed queries about Louisiana cemetery procedures.

Fernando Aguirre, publisher of the Surviving in Argentina blog at http://ferfal.blogspot.com/ for being my Argentina research contact.

Rosemary Macray, Office of Policy and Public Affairs, Bureau of Consular Affairs, U.S. Department of State helped me deal with the US Embassy procedures.

The late Mike Harden. He was a Writer, and once told me I had a future in writing. I hope he's still right.

Rachel Thompson, Melissa Flickinger, Wendy Garfinkle, Yosbe Calma, and the rest of the team at Gravity and Booktrope. Thank you for seeing something worthy in my words.

My wife Diana. I can't say more.

Chapter 1

24 May 2010

LIFE WAS PRETTY GOOD. I was eighteen months into my parole, and staying out of trouble. I had a job. Heck, I had my own company and the money that came with it. Not a lot at first, but it was finally starting to pick up. Who knew an ex-con could make money selling recovered police evidence and property? I had a girlfriend now, too, who accepted me with all the baggage that comes with a convicted felon. It almost couldn’t get better. Then I saw her.

It was odd that I even found her. Usually the departments I got stuff from were consistent about erasing files and such. I hardly ever double-checked them, just because they had gotten so consistent.

Even stranger was that there was a case number attached to her. That’s only about the third time it’d happened since I started Graybar Auctions. One department up in upstate New York had let some stuff slip through, but it was their first time shipping stuff to me. I’d been working with Westwood PD in Alabama, the department that sent this shipment to me, almost since the beginning. They’d helped me work out my rules, so they knew the drill. I shook my head.

I looked at the seventeen images on my screen for almost fifteen minutes. I think it was her eyes that sent me over the edge. Even Maria, my office assistant, commented on it.

You know, I think that’s who that guy had in mind when he sang that line, ‘restless and reckless and lost.’

She was pretty and young. Long blonde hair framed a small face in six photos. It was pulled back into pigtails in three, and in a single ponytail or braid in the rest. She wore three different outfits. The locations were unremarkable. Most were inside. Some showed her on a couch, and one showed her cooking. The outside shots looked posed, and could’ve passed for high school graduation photos, if she’d been old enough to graduate. She looked happy outside.

There was something haunting about her. The look in her eyes was distant and maybe a little bit sad. Maria’s comment about Out of the Frying Pan by Meat Loaf cued up the song in my head and I let it play mentally as I stared. Restless and reckless and lost fit her all too well. So did the walking wounded and the living dead. The resolution on the pictures was good enough that I could see she’d been crying in the last two.

I finally shook off the willies creeping up my spine, and checked out the forty other memory cards in the box. Took me an hour. I didn’t find anything else weird, which calmed me down. A little. There were two cameras, the cards, and some jewelry in the shipment. I stuffed everything into the safe in the backroom and got back to work.

The rest of the day seemed to fly in a blur. I saw all the outbound boxes piled by the backdoor waiting for UPS to pick them up, but I couldn’t tell you anything about any of the auctions. Usually something stuck in my head about each batch of stuff I sent out. I could tell you where a shipment was going, or something about my contact at one of the departments. Today, though, I was still stuck on The Sad Girl. Maria had named her that, and it fit.

Before she left for the day, Maria handed me a manila folder, firm with pages.

I did a little research while you were packing today’s outbounds. Printed the pictures, too. Something to read over dinner.

* * *

Teresa saw it in my face as soon as I walked in the door. What’s wrong, Danny?

I shrugged, not really knowing how to explain it, so I handed her the folder.

Pretty. Who is she? She looks awfully young to be so sad.

I nodded. She was young, and seemed terribly sad. Maria quoted Meat Loaf: ‘restless and reckless and lost.’ I don’t know. She was on a memory card I got from a department in Alabama.

She might be fourteen. In my line of work, I should know better than to ask, but what could be going on in her life for her to look like that? Anything else interesting?

Couple cameras. Jewelry. Nothing special. A few dozen memory cards. That’s where she was.

She had dinner ready for us, and we ate and talked about her day, which had been much less unsettling than mine. She’d picked up a half-dozen new cases at the Public Defender’s office, where she was an investigator. Made for some long days sometimes. We talked through dinner like an old married couple, despite the fact that we’d only known each other for a year and dating for half of that.

After dinner, I did the dishes, and she tried to find out more about The Sad Girl. When I was done in the kitchen, I pulled another chair over to the desk and rested my chin on Teresa’s shoulder as she worked her magic with the search engines. The searching and tweaking I had to do for my online auction company came easily, but search sites like Google could reduce me to a drooling moron. But that was another reason I loved her: we seemed to complement each other. It never failed to amaze me, especially considering her career and my past.

We spent the rest of the evening in front of the computer, searching all kinds of news stories. It was sadly enlightening to see how many missing-kids websites and news stories are out there. I finally realized we weren’t going to get anywhere with the resources we had and decided to call the department tomorrow.

* * *

What do you mean, there were pictures on those cards? I erased them all myself.

Sergeant Ross was my regular contact at Westwood. He was usually pretty laid-back, but today he sounded like there was a throbbing blood vessel in his forehead.

Card. Singular. But there are pictures on that card, and the case number is still on it. Can you tell me anything about it?

Why do you want to know?

I’m nosy, OK? I stopped for a second. Why did I want to know? She wasn’t anyone I knew, and I certainly wasn’t involved in the case at all. But that look in her eyes made the hair stand up on my arms. I heard him typing, then muttering. It sounded like he was reading to himself from the computer screen.

Hmm. Hang on a sec. The on-hold music was some Top-40 singer I’d never heard of. I listened to what the jocks today called classic rock. It was popular before I went to prison, which meant that I was old.

Detective Thomas. How can I help you? There was little enough of a drawl to make me doubt he was a native Alabaman.

I explained again about the auction business—that I got stuff from police departments and sold it on consignment—and how I’d come by the pictures and the case number.

I guess I’m just curious about her. It’s not often that I come across photos like this. Your property guy is usually pretty good about erasing stuff.

I see. Well, Mr. Cumberland, there’s actually not much I can tell you. We’ve got a hold on the case, so we’re not releasing any information on it.

Crap. That sounded like it was a murder or missing person, and they didn’t know squat. And a missing case a few years old was usually a murder anyway. I thanked him for his time, and went back to work. There were boxes to open, pictures to take, and auctions to run.

A familiar Ford sedan sat in the parking lot when I got to work the next day. Dominic Calovini, my PO, waved to me as he talked on his cell phone. I had coffee waiting for him when he came in.

Business or pleasure? Aside from checking up on me every so often, Dom stopped by every couple of weeks to see what I had. I’d hooked him up with some nice stuff on occasion.

You gave a DNA sample when you got out, right?

I froze for a second then nodded slowly. Yeah. Actually, several months before I got out.

You mind giving one now?

My heartrate shot up along with my eyebrow and all sorts of warning flags. POs don’t just randomly stop by to get a DNA swab.

Why? I already gave one.

You know the rules, man.

Why now?

He shrugged. Don’t know. I just got a phone call telling me to hit you up, and the guy on the other end of the phone was not someone I can say no to.

I sighed. At least he let me wait until Maria got in. I wasn’t worried about anything. I just hated the reminder that I was still on a leash. I’d paid my debt, both literally and figuratively.

Dom and I made small talk on the way to the clinic. I told him about The Sad Girl. He was mildly interested when I told him where I found her, but as unsurprised as I was that I couldn’t find out anything else.

He bought me an early lunch on the way back to the office as a further apology. I liked Dom, such as I could. I’d heard horror stories about parole officers, and knew I’d gotten lucky with him. He went over the rules when we met, and told me if I didn’t give him any trouble, he would return the favor, and he’d been true to his word. It helped that I had a plan when I got out.

For the next week, I didn’t have time to think about her. I’d been talking to several fairly large police departments about handling their property, and they all bit at once. Then a reporter got wind of the whole thing, and suddenly my auctions were going nuts. Even the junk stuff I put up was drawing bids. We were slammed with shipments coming in and packages going out. I needed to hire someone else to help, but I didn’t even have time to think about an ad, much less write one. Teresa came in a few times to help out, joking it was the only way she could see me. She said it with her musical laugh, but I knew she missed me.

I did manage to glance at a couple of the photos one day as I wolfed down a burger Teresa brought me. I was starting to analyze the backgrounds, to see if I could see anything special about them. I’d finally decided they were hotel rooms. The walls that I could see were bare except for the corner of a commercial-looking painting in one. The day Dom had stopped by, I’d checked the other cards I got with The Sad Girl, and saw that at least a couple more had come from the same case. The card she was on was only 32 megs, but the other two I found were both 2-gig cards. That made for a bunch of photos or maybe even some video. I wondered if anything was recoverable from the cards.

Two days later, I had my answer. Maria had a friend who did data recovery as a business, and he checked out the cards for me, after reminding me about how computers really handled deleted files. I bought a data scrubber software package from him as my way of paying for his time.

The stuff he’d been able to recover turned my stomach. The Sad Girl was no older than fourteen, I’d decided (with input from Maria and Teresa), and I refused to believe that a just-teenaged girl knew about some of the things she was doing. Maria’s friend hadn’t been able to recover everything, and I was glad for that. I’d begun thinking of her as a sister, or a daughter, and seeing her like that hurt.

Chapter 2

THREE WEEKS LATER, I was starting my day in my favorite way: second cup of coffee in my hand as I alternated between reading the news on the web and watching cars and people in the lot. I’d chosen a spot in an older strip mall, mainly because the rent was cheap. The nice big windows enticed the occasional walk-in customer and allowed me to people-watch on those rare days when I wasn’t busy.

I saw Dom’s car pull in, and realized he wasn’t alone. The guy with him was huge. Dom is about six-four and a solid two-forty at least, and this guy was taller and a little wider. He had a three-ring binder under his tree-trunk left arm. I met them at the door. Business?

Dom nodded. Maria here yet? This will probably take a while, and we’ll need some privacy.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach and my heart raced. If Dom was going to violate me, he’d have just taken me in. So who was the other guy? I showed them to my office, pointing out the coffeemaker on the way, and then went back out front until Maria showed up. Her eyes went to the office before she was all the way through the door. She knew Dom’s car as well as I did. I told her what we had coming in and going out, and headed for the office.

They both had coffee in front of them, but neither was drinking. I sat down, tried to look calm and watched them study me.

This is Detective Thomas from Westwood PD.

Where’s Westwood PD? Alabama, right?

He nodded. We’re just north of Mobile. Smallish town, maybe thirty thousand in a good week.

I’ve been working with your department almost since I started this auction thing. Welcome to San Diego, Detective. What did you do to get sent way out here?

Danielle Cumberland Dawson, he said after a minute, not looking at my eyes.

I nodded as the name thudded around in my head.

You know her? Dom asked.

I shook my head. Interesting combination, though. I have a unique last name. I’ll admit that. One of these days I wanted to see where the name Cumberland came from.

Could she be a long-lost sister, or cousin? Thomas asked.

Not likely, sir. I’m an only child of two only children. I haven’t talked to what little extended family I have since long before I did my time.

What about Angela Marie Dawson?

The clock ticked for a minute or two. A Monty Python clip announced incoming email, and still we stared at each other. Mentally, I was in San Francisco and it was sixteen years ago. The city was beautiful that year, and so was Angie. I’d lost track of her. A Navy career and prison time will do that to almost any relationship. I nodded finally. I knew her.

Thomas’s chair creaked ominously as he shifted his weight. How well?

Carnally. No point in prancing around the truth. It had been an incredible summer. Angie loved me that summer the way I think she did everything in her life—completely, uninhibitedly.

He nodded. Fifteen years ago, Angela Marie Dawson had a daughter. She named her Danielle Cumberland Dawson. There was no father listed on the birth certificate.

I had a daughter. And she was dead.

Every tick of the clock exploded in my ears, each one blasting a new memory through my brain.

Thomas cleared his throat. About three years ago, a Texas DPS trooper came across a pair of RVs on I-40, midway between Amarillo and Oklahoma. One was broken down. When the trooper pulled up, a bunch of girls jumped out of the broke-down RV and the other one took off. Turns out the girls were from all over the West and Southwest, and had been kidnapped over the week or so prior.

He paused for a long drink of coffee and sighed. I realized he was reciting this from memory, and not reading notes.

"The trooper radioed for assistance, but they weren’t able to locate the other RV for several days. One of our officers found it at a motel outside of town, and we arrested a German by the name of Nikolai Egger. Mr. Egger was a former Stasi officer whose new line of work was supplying women and girls to various interests around the world."

My stomach started roiling as I realized where this was headed. Which RV was she in?

Thomas kept his gaze on the binder on my desk. The girls in the disabled RV said there were five girls in the one that got away. When we arrested Egger, he was alone, and the RV was empty. In exchange for dropping the death penalty, he agreed to lead us to a series of graves in northern Louisiana. Thomas paused for a moment, his eyes closed. We found five bodies. Egger told us who they were, but we still needed to confirm what he said. Most were identified through dental work or DNA, but for the last girl, we didn’t have any family members to compare the DNA with.

Until I called Sergeant Ross? What made you look at me, the name?

He nodded, watching me. Daniel and Danielle, and her middle name the same as your last. Who wouldn’t at least check in to that? We had Egger’s ID of the bodies and locations, as well as ID of the girl who was found with her, who was known to be a friend of Danielle’s. He sipped some more coffee. You know, it’s really a complete fluke that we found you. We had no reason to start searching for you until you called, and the odd thing is that we never should’ve sent you those memory cards.

How so?

We have to keep all of the evidence until the—until Egger exhausts any appeals. Everything else from that case is still evidence. We’ve got master copies made from those cards, so there’s no real issue there, but it’s really odd that you got those cards in the first place.

I nodded slowly. There was a surreal feeling to the moment. He was telling me that a daughter I didn’t know I had was dead, and I felt...nothing. I wasn’t even numb, really. It just didn’t seem real to me.

Dom watched me closely. Danny, you want me to call Teresa? This is pretty heavy stuff we’re laying on you.

I thought for a moment. We were supposed to have lunch today, so I figured I’d fill her in then. Even if I called her now, she wouldn’t be able to get here much before lunch. I finally shook my head. Wait a minute. You said there was no DNA to compare to her? Where was Angie?

Thomas reached for his binder. They lived in a communal residence in San Francisco. He flipped through several pages, stopped at one, and skimmed it and the next two. When we matched Danielle up with the missing person report her mother filed, we contacted SFPD, but they weren’t able to find Angela. Her housemates were fairly uncooperative as far as identifying where in the house Danielle slept, or where Angela might’ve been. They suggested Angela was out trying to find Danielle herself, and the folks there had pretty much packed up any belongings they had there. He closed the binder and looked at me. We’ve never heard from her, and I don’t think San Francisco has, either. I’m sorry. I’ve never found a really good way to break this news to a parent, Mr. Cumberland. It’s bad enough to find out you have a daughter you never knew about, but to find out at the same time that she’s deceased must be incredibly difficult, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that.

Difficult was the perfect word for it. I couldn’t fault Thomas. This was pretty crappy news to deliver to someone. "Hey, the child you never knew you had was murdered by a slavery ring, have a nice day."

But why wasn’t I in tears? Why wasn’t I way more upset than I seemed to be? I sat back in my chair, trying to process everything.

Angie and I had spent most of a week together, joined at the hip, as it were, for most of that time. Pregnancy didn’t surprise me at all. I doubted she could’ve contacted me if she wanted, since I didn’t tell her what ship I was assigned to. At least I didn’t think I did. It was sixteen years ago or so, and the memories were hazy enough as it was. Add in the alcohol that I was sure was involved, and parts of that week rocketed right past hazy to completely blank. But something just didn’t seem right at this point. I didn’t doubt that Angie and I had a daughter, but it just didn’t seem like she was dead.

I felt like I should be full of questions, but what was there to ask? Danielle was dead, and the only person who could really tell me anything about her was missing. I rubbed my eyes and temples. I had a headache coming, and it was sure to be a doozy. So what about Angie? Is there a missing persons case on her?

Thomas shook his head. Not from our end. There’s an alert on Danielle’s file should anyone call in about the case, and we’ve got the same thing set up, but as far as I know, no one is actively looking for her.

Dom pulled out a notepad and jotted something down. Danny, I’ll make a couple of calls when I get back to the office, and see what I can find out.

Thomas pulled a folder from his binder and set it on the desk. Here’s a copy of the original SFPD report, the DPS initial report, and some stuff from Louisiana State Police. Copies of the lab work, too. My card is on the front. I’m not sure what else I’ll be able to tell you, but if you have any questions, call me. He stood and turned for the door, then turned back. Mr. Cumberland, I really wish today had better news for you. He gestured to Dom. "He had plenty of good things to say about you. It’s not often I meet guys like you in my line of work.

Reviews for The Sad Girl

[pet12-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Sad Girl was a very emotional read, certainly a lot more than I had expected from a book advertised as a mystery/thriller. Told from first person point of view by Danny, who has served 12 years behind bars and is now out on parole, you really empathized with him when he discovered he had a teenage daughter he never knew about, the girl was kidnapped 3 years ago by human traffickers and was dead. But then Danny comes across inconsistencies in the case and ends up hunting down a sex trafficking ring.The first person narrative worked really well here as Danny dealt with feelings of guilt and distrust but also love and hope for the future. I only realized this was Christian fiction when I got into the story, but fortunately it was done in a non-preachy manner. It was more philosophical, so I was happy enough with that. I liked the "your past is a rudder, not an anchor" mentality.The author was very skilled at creating down-to-earth "real" people and although some of the plot was a little contrived and towards the end near the limit of credibility, it still had a very authentic feel to it. I think some of that was due to the author not rushing through the story-line but nevertheless keeping it intense throughout. Good writing.I received a copy via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.