Cole's Passage

By Michael Berrier

Tom Cole is a jaded ex-cop who wants nothing more than to be left alone until a neighbor asks for his help locating her missing teenage daughter. As Tom searches for the girl, he discovers that not only does she have good reasons for escaping from her family, but he also finds that he is looking for more than a runaway. His search takes him from the streets of Los Angeles to the sea, where he engages in a fight with the elements, and with human enemies just as dangerous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Berrier
• Release date: Apr 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781636843278

Michael Berrier

Michael Berrier creates suspenseful stories about greed, corruption, and justice. Learn more at michaelberrier.com

Book preview

Cole’s Passage

1

None of Tom Cole’s parolees had ever come to his door. So why this urge to go for his pistol when the doorbell rang? He didn’t need his gun. Not now.

He turned off the television, went to the door and looked through the peephole.

In the distorted view of the fisheye lens, he made out Renee Lawson, his neighbor from down the street. She stood on his porch alone, and even in the distortion she looked good.

He opened the door.

Without the lens between them, in the stark morning light Tom now saw a haunted expression on her face.

He tried to remember how long it had been since her daughter disappeared.

Hi, Renee, he said.

Can I talk to you, Tom? she said.

Sure. There were chairs on the front porch, and he gestured in their direction.

Inside would be better, she said.

He hesitated. Okay, he said, stepping back.

She moved past him, a woman about Tom’s height. Her light red hair hung limply to her shoulders. She wore a knit pullover sweater, purple, and jeans, running shoes. She carried a bag, a slender strap over her shoulder.

In the living room, she looked the place over. She’d never been here before. Tom watched as her eyes landed on the picture of him and his son on the flying bridge of the Manifest, the sport fishing boat he and his friend Brad had owned twenty years ago. Visitors, when he had them, would sometimes comment on boating or ask about his son.

Not Renee. She turned and faced him, her lips set in a hard line.

He became aware of the closeness of the room.

Have a seat, he said. He offered the sofa to her, and she lowered onto it and crossed her legs, back rigid.

He said, Can I get you anything?

No, thanks.

Tom sat in a chair opposite the sofa. Any word on April?

She shook her head and started talking. Tom had heard stories like hers before. April had been a good kid, she came from a good home, a good family, but then everything changed and the kid wasn’t so good anymore. The girl began to withdraw. She became distant, then sullen, then angry. Her appearance changed next—hair, makeup, clothes—and then came indications of drug abuse as she began to rapidly lose weight. They’d tried intervention and counseling, but nothing brought her back to them.

And when they sent her to rehab, she ran off. And disappeared.

It was difficult for Tom to put this story together with the girl he’d seen growing up in the neighborhood over the years since her family had moved in. But who knew what happened behind the doors of these houses?

Has she ever run away before? Tom said.

"Never. And I’m not sure she did. But that’s what the police seem to think. The detective’s named Ackermann. Two Ns. Jewish."

Tom wondered what Ackermann being Jewish had to do with anything, but he skipped it. You think she’s been abducted? he said. From rehab?

I don’t know! And even if she wasn’t, who knows what’s happened to her since she’s been out there? Her eyes held his, pleading, her brows rising. It’s been three days, Tom. We haven’t found a trace of her...

As she spoke, it began to dawn on Tom where Renee was going with all this. And he didn’t like it.

He’d been retired for nearly two years. And the truth was, even during the last three years he’d been on the job, his heart hadn’t been in it. So if you looked at it honestly, he’d been retired for five years. Most of his buddies were retired now too, or a lot of them, anyway. All but Brad. But beyond Brad, Tom had no real connections anymore, and more important than not having many connections, he had no motivation. He was almost sixty, and sometimes he thought he had the mentality of an eighty-year-old. Sure, he was so bored most days that it was all he could do to stay away from a bottle until the afternoon. And the desertion of his family, or his desertion of them, depending on his mood, left him with just the television and the bottle and his few friends to distract him from his regrets. He’d tried hobbies but none stuck except the hours he could spend with the weight set in his garage and the heavy bag he pounded on until his arms wanted to drop off. But he didn’t want a job. He didn’t want an assignment. He’d botched things up enough—in his job and in his marriage and with his son. He hated to think what might happen if he made himself responsible for finding this girl too.

Renee stared at him. Waiting.

He said, The LAPD and the Feds have a lot of resources, Renee.

But they won’t use their resources to find her. They say if she’s run away, she’s likely to just come back. And even if they tried to find her, they’ve got a thousand other things to do.

Tom almost said he did too, but she was too desperate to lie to.

I’m not an investigator, he said. I never was. I was a parole officer most of my career. There are private investigators—

I don’t know them. I know you.

Not really, Tom thought. Our houses are near one another. We see each other in passing, drive past each other and wave, make small talk at the annual block party. That’s it. We don’t know one another well at all.

I can pay you, she said. I have some money I’ve been able to save—

I don’t need your money. I just don’t see what I can offer you.

She looked to the window, her lips parted. It looked out onto the street, onto the sidewalk Tom had seen April walk down dozens of times on the way home.

Someone must have seen her, he said. Why not go on television? Make an appeal to the public?

Steve doesn’t want to do that.

Her husband, the shy accountant who didn’t look like any accountant he’d ever seen. The man on his morning runs chugged down the street like a heavyweight in training.

She went on. He thinks that kind of thing is sensationalism.

That doesn’t make any sense. If somebody sees you on the news and they’ve seen her—

He won’t do it. And he won’t let me do it either.

Won’t let—? Tom stopped himself. Does he know you’re here? he said.

No. And I don’t want him to know.

Tom wouldn’t allow himself to judge Steve and Renee Lawson’s marriage. He was in no position to. If her husband tried to control her, it wasn’t Tom’s affair.

Well, what does Steve want to do about it? he said.

She reached into her purse for something. If she was going for a tissue because she wanted to manipulate him with tears, he’d have to show her the door.

But what she came out with and unfolded was an outsized sheet of paper, a size you might see taped to a telephone pole. She held it out to him. This, she said.

He pushed up from the chair and took it from her.

The picture must have been taken before April started with the drugs. Her eyes, dark and wide, were mesmerizing, and her smile now reminded Tom of a pop star whose name he couldn’t bring to mind. Across the top of the paper was the word, Missing, and along the bottom a phone number people could call if they saw her.

Steve knew what he was doing.

Tom looked at Renee. Giving him this picture was not a fair tactic. And Renee knew it. She nodded down at the picture.

He returned to it. The girl would attract attention wherever she went. On the streets, every man and boy would home in on her in an instant whether they were good or bad.

She didn’t stand a chance.

How old is she now? he said.

Sixteen, Renee said.

She looked older than sixteen, Tom thought. That wouldn’t do her any good either.

Tom had no business doing this. He had no private investigator’s license. He was just a used-up ex-cop who wanted to be left alone. The police still on the job had far more resources and skills than he had, and he’d never worked in Missing Persons, had no training in this kind of investigation.

He held out the paper to her. Renee, I’d like to help. But this just isn’t—

You have to, she said. There’s no one else I trust.

She wouldn’t take the paper back.

Then find someone you can trust. You said you have some money saved.

She was blinking back tears now. Too proud to let him see her cry. Not enough, she said.

Steve thinks hiring someone would be a waste of money? Is that it?

She nodded. He’s so tight he squeaks.

Where is he now?

He went up to Hollywood. She motioned to the poster in Tom’s hand. Putting those up. Yesterday he put them up at Venice Beach.

He was hitting some of the places teen runaways might go. Not a bad idea.

What have her friends told you?

Nobody’s heard from her. That’s what makes me think someone’s taken her. Unless her friend’s aren’t being honest.

You think someone’s holding out on you?

She looked at the floor. I don’t know, Tom.

The way she said his name, the plea in it, froze him for a moment. He blinked. You’ve tried the shelters?

She nodded. They won’t tell us anything.

What about her social media accounts? Can you get access to them?

Not yet. It takes a subpoena and Ackermann’s supposedly working on it. He says we should get it any day. But I’m tagging her in my own posts constantly. Anyone following her on any of her accounts knows she’s missing and they know to contact me if they’ve seen her. But I’ve gotten nothing. They put her up on the LAPD’s Missing Persons site and we’ve put that flyer up on a bunch of sites for missing kids. Just crackpots so far. According to Ackermann.

Tom looked down at the picture of April. He realized he was running his palm back and forth along his bare scalp. It was an old habit, one he hadn’t caught himself doing for nearly two years. Since his retirement.

He heaved a sigh.

Renee watched him.

Three days. Even though he’d never worked Missing Persons, Tom knew that if someone had taken her, with every passing hour their odds of finding her safe diminished.

He looked into the eyes in the picture.

How could he not try to find her? Wouldn’t failing to try be worse than trying and failing?

He’d failed so many times, he wasn’t sure he knew the difference anymore.

He dropped his hand. Looking into the photo of those eyes, resignation descended upon him.

She must not have her phone, Tom said. Is that right? Missing Persons would be able to track her location if she had it.

Renee nodded.

I’ll need the names and numbers of all her friends, he said. And family. Teachers. Anybody close to the family. Anyone who had any contact with her at all. Or contact with you or Steve.

He’d done it. He’d committed to it.

Renee reached into her bag again. She came out with a list and handed it over. She must have prepared it for Ackermann. Written in a neat and angled script were names, addresses, phone numbers, all categorized and with notes next to each one telling him the person’s relationship to April or the family. Renee had written her cell number at the top.

Are any of these new friends? People she started hanging out with when you started to notice April changing?

The ones at the bottom of the list.

Tom looked them over. Near the bottom of the list was the name Marcus Williams, and below it, Jon McKenna. That one drew Tom’s attention. This guy, Jon McKenna, why’s his address at a church?

I don’t have his home address. That’s where he works.

Talk about that.

She started going there—I don’t know, six months ago. Maybe she thought it would help her get clean.

Tom had heard of McKenna’s church. It was a big one. He scanned the sheet and found the name and address of the rehab facility in Calabasas. So the last time you saw her was when you took her to rehab? he said.

She nodded.

He looked over the names on the list. I don’t see any other addresses on this list anywhere near Calabasas. Does she know anyone out there she could have gone to?

Renee shook her head. She’d come back to L.A. if she could. I know it. This is where all her friends are.

Did she have any money? Access to any?

I—I don’t think so. The rehab place is inpatient. They don’t let the residents—

So how could she get back? It’s twenty-five miles.

I don’t know. Maybe she tried to hitch— She couldn’t seem to say the rest of the word. She swiped at her cheeks, although they were dry, as if she were so used to crying she just assumed tears were falling.

All right, Tom said. I’ll have to go through her room. Are you okay with that?

Of course. We can do that now. Steve should be gone a couple hours.

He looked back at the list. There had to be thirty names here. I’ll be over in a few minutes, he said. I have to make a call.

Okay.

They stood.

Renee, doing this without talking to Steve is sort of tying my hands.

It’s the way it’s got to be. He wouldn’t understand. And I can’t deal with his issues right now. Not with everything... She lowered her head to compose herself. After a moment, she lifted her face to him again.

Tom didn’t know what he saw in those eyes. It might have been desperation. It might have been fear. But there was a hint of something else. Something just out of his reach.

He chalked it up to her stress. Never mind, he said. I’ll do all I can, Renee, but I’ve never done this kind of—

I trust you, Tom. She stepped closer and her fragrance rose to him. Those brown eyes softened, and when she lifted her hand and put it on his arm, its warmth penetrated his shirtsleeve. I can’t tell you how much this means to me, she said. She gave him a hint of a smile, lifted her hand from his arm, turned and walked out.

Alone again, Tom looked down at the flyer, the picture of the girl, a girl with auburn hair and with dark eyes that had a look in them that radiated brightness from inside and would draw people to her. She could be a pop star, a prom queen, a teen model.

But on the streets, beauty could be a curse.

2

Tom picked up his ringing cell phone. The readout told him it was his ex-partner, Brad Hathaway, returning Tom’s call.

The sounds of the road were in the background. You’re not at your computer, are you? Tom said.

Driving in.

Why don’t you listen to people’s messages?

I don’t like one-way conversations, Brad said.

If you listened to it, you’d know I asked you to call me when you were at your desk.

Well, I didn’t. So I’m not. What’s your hurry, anyway? You late for Bingo, ol’ fella?

They don’t play Bingo in the morning. They play Bingo in the afternoon. If you’d retire like the rest of us, you’d know that.

Tell Patty’s divorce lawyer. I’ve got another five years to go, at least. But I’m not complaining. Last thing I want is to sit around letting my brain—what do you call it?

Atrophy. You do that gag every time you talk to me.

Never gets old. Unlike you.

How long till you’re at your desk?

Tom waited while Brad figured it out. Thirty minutes, Brad said.

I’ll call you back then, okay?

Make it thirty-five. I gotta shave.

All right then, thirty-five. Later.

Tom hung up and knew what Brad would be doing for the next thirty-five minutes. He’d seen him go through his morning routines enough to know. He’d be driving from the coast to the station and then in the locker room he’d need to shower off the saltwater from his morning surf session, and then shave and dress.

Tom occupied himself on his computer conducting Google searches of the names Renee had given him until the thirty-five minutes had passed, and then he called Brad back.

Punctual, Brad said.

My best trait. I need you to run some names for me. I texted them to you.

Just a second. When he came back on, he said, There’s like thirty of them.

Thirty-two. Tom waited.

Brad went silent. In the background, Tom could hear distant voices, phones trilling, things moving around. He could picture the room where he used to work down to the paper clips littering the desktops.

You ever hear of ‘official misconduct’? Brad said. This many names, the computer geeks who watch this kind of thing—

They won’t even find out. Tom Googled the next name on Renee’s list, a teacher named Emily Riesen.

Some friend. Who’s going to pay my alimony if they fire me? Brad asked.

When did you get so dramatic? You’re not using the information for personal reasons. You’re looking into a disappeared kid.

For a personal friend.

Emily Riesen taught drama. She had some acting credits. Tom said, They won’t find out. Anyway, they can’t fire you. You’re indispensable.

I keep forgetting that. So does Jerry. Jerry was the region’s CDRA—Chief Deputy Regional Administrator—and Brad’s boss.

Jerry loves you.

I keep forgetting that too. You know there’s such a thing as public criminal records checks, don’t you?

Not for kids.

Brad slurped some coffee. You better tell me what this is about.

One of my neighbors has a kid missing. Her name’s the first one on the list.

Tom imagined Brad looking over the list. How old?

Sixteen. Look, I know this is a lot to ask.

It sure is. Maybe you forgot since you retired, but there are guys who look for missing people for a living. They’re called detectives. They’ve got a whole unit of LAPD called Missing Persons.

Is that right? Tom keyed in the next name on Renee’s list. A friend named Sadie Deschner. Tom found her Facebook page but all her postings were private.

I know you old folks need hobbies, but seriously, why not let the guys do their job?

I tried to tell the girl’s mom that. She’s got it in her head that I’ve got superpowers or something.

Secret’s out. Brad took another sip. "You are going to talk to the dick on the case, right?"

Yep.

They didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Tom waited, hoping he’d come around. Finally, he said, Tell you what, I’ll text you the girl’s picture when we get off the phone. Take a look at the picture then decide.

That won’t help.

Tom didn’t respond.

All right, Brad said. Later.

He hung up.

Tom took a picture of the flyer Renee had left, and let the text go.

In thirty seconds, he got a reply.

Not fair, was all the text said.

3

Tom stepped out into the cool morning and zipped his jacket. There was always the drone of traffic no matter the hour since his house was less than half a mile from the Santa Monica Freeway, but traffic was rarer here than on most streets in L.A. since this one was a dead end. Before locking his front door, he surveyed the area from his porch. The trees lining the street were leafless this time of year, giving the neighborhood a feeling of winter slumber.

He locked his door and stepped off his porch, down the walkway and to the sidewalk, turning right.

The farther up the street he went, the larger and more expensive the homes were. Steve and Renee’s place, toward the end of the street, was two stories to Tom’s one, and maybe triple the square footage. After the Lawsons bought the place, they’d scraped the lot and had a custom home built. Tom moved up the driveway toward the steps leading up to the front door. The American flag flying from a wall-mounted pole by the entrance caught a breeze and billowed. He came to the door and used the bell.

Renee opened up in an instant. Come in, she said in a rush, and her urgency moved him forward. She looked different from when she’d been at his house an hour ago. Same clothes, same shoes, but— It was her makeup. She’d put something on her face to bring out peach color in her cheeks and she’d penciled in eyeliner and eyeshadow. Her lips glimmered wetly.

Tom filed it away and moved past her.

She closed the door and her hand hovered over the latch. Tom thought she might be thinking that April might come home without a key. She left it unlocked, a rarity in L.A.

She turned to him. It’s upstairs.

He followed her up, looking over the handrail to chart the downstairs as he climbed. In the living room, hardwood floors shone in the light streaming in from blinds angled to let it in, and he saw not a speck of dust on floor or surface. The furnishings looked inexpensive but sharp, nothing out of place or threadbare, throw pillows angled in that haphazard-but-planned way people used them. Tom possessed not a single throw pillow.

At the head of the stairs, Renee turned to her left. She stopped at a doorway and nodded at it. This is April’s room, she said.

Tom stepped inside.

The paint on the walls up top was pink and the wallpaper covering the rest of the walls was vertical stripes in white and brown. Against the wall to his left was a twin bed with a headboard and footboard of a type they called a sleigh. Tom saw a photo collage on the wall next to her bed. Above it, wooden block letters spelling out APRIL were nailed to the wall. A desk stood opposite her bed, doubling as a computer workstation and vanity judging by what was on top of it.

Next to the computer was the girl’s phone. He didn’t think anybody left home without their phone. Especially teenagers.

Renee stepped in behind him. He said, They didn’t let her take her phone to rehab? Is that why it’s still here?

She knit her fingers together. She wouldn’t have taken it anyway. She found out Steve was... She looked down at the floor and blinked.

He was what?

There’s this spyware. He had April’s—what do you call it? She looked down to the corner of the room for a second. iCloud credentials. He had April’s iCloud credentials. She looked up at him. He was afraid for her. He was trying to protect her.

So, with this spyware he could see what she was doing on her phone?

She nodded Everything. And where she was.

Tom thought about how a teenager would feel when she found out about such an invasion of her privacy. I’d better see what he learned. Can you get the spyware info for me?

I’ll try.

While you’re at it, get me a few more of those fliers. A dozen or so.

She nodded and left the room.

He moved away from the desk. The closet door was closed. No clothes littered the floor of her room, no clutter.

Renee returned and handed Tom a handful of fliers. He folded them and stuffed them into a pocket on the inside of his jacket.

You said she started using drugs. What’s she been using?

She crossed her arms. Meth. I think. What difference does it make?

Maybe none. But maybe the guys who sell meth aren’t the same guys who sell crack and it helps narrow things down.

She nodded. All right. Makes sense.

So what else? If you didn’t know April, what would you need to know to find her?

Tom went to the photo collage.

Renee said, When she was a little girl, we always had to encourage her to get outside to play with the neighbor kids. She was happy just playing alone in her room.

In the collage were class pictures of kids, more posed shots, candid shots, and strips that looked like they came from an old fashioned photobooth. A few sullen or pouting expressions that could have been jokes, but the rest were of happy kids, most of them white.

Tom said, Looks like she’s got lots of friends now.

When she was around twelve she found a group of girls she fit in with.

He turned to her. Some of these kids?

Uh huh.

You know everybody in these pictures?

Sure.

Come take a look, he said.

She hesitated a second, a frown telling him she questioned why he doubted her, but then her face relaxed and she stepped up next to him to peer at the collage. Tom let himself take in her profile—the creamy complexion, the softness of her cheeks, long lashes sweeping up from those brown eyes. Steve Lawson was a lucky man.

Actually, she said, there are a couple I don’t recognize.

Tom pulled out the list of names she’d given him earlier. He asked her to point out each person on the list, and soon Tom began to lose track of which ones she pointed out so he went to April’s desk and found a pad of post-it notes and started putting one over each picture she could name. When they came to a picture of April with a young man who was Black, Tom noticed something shift in Renee’s posture, and she said the name Marcus Williams flatly.

It was a name on Renee’s list, one of April’s newer friends.

Tom didn’t put a post-it over the picture. Something I should know? he said.

I can’t understand why she’d let him anywhere near her.

Yeah?

Yeah. Look at her, she said. And until all this happened she was a straight-A student. Gymnastics team. Drama. And that guy? He’s Black—a loser. I think he might be a dropout.

Tom made a mental note of the words she’d used, the tone in her voice when she referred to the only Black kid in the collage—strike two after the undercurrent in her voice when she’d referred to the Jewish cop in Missing Persons.

He put a post-it note over the picture.

When Renee had identified all the kids in the collage, a phone rang somewhere down the hall.

Renee said, I have to get that. It might be... and she was gone.

Maybe the caller would be someone with news about April and Tom could cut short invading the girl’s privacy. But he doubted it.

He pulled down the post-it notes and tossed them into the trash and turned to the desk. April had a PC and when he powered it up the screen saver wasn’t one of the stock photos he’d expected. He sat back. He’d never seen it before, but his grandfather had taken him to Sunday School as a kid, so he knew the scene depicted. Two men were at the center. Around them the sea surged with waves, and in the rear was the kind of fishing boat used in the day, angled up on a tall swell. The man sinking in the water would be Peter, and the man in the white robe that whipped around him in the wind, the man standing on the water reaching down to keep Peter from sinking, would be Jesus.

The icon of an eye blinked at the top of the screen, and flashing across were the words, I don’t recognize you, the eye icon blinking. April had programmed the sign-on to use the camera to identify her face rather than requiring a password. Tom had the same version of software powering his PC, but he hadn’t trusted the facial recognition. After a few blinks of the eye on the screen before him, the words, PIN required appeared, with a field where April could enter the digits.

Tom would have to ask Renee if she knew the PIN or April’s password. But Tom guessed that like most teenage girls, April wouldn’t give her mom anything so personal.

He opened the top drawer. What he was looking for was everything. Everything that would tell him who April was, where she went, who she went there with, what was important to her.

On top, he found a leatherbound Bible. He opened it. There was a page with blanks that had been filled out. It said, PRESENTED TO, and in the blank underneath, April’s name had been written. In the blank underneath BY was the name Jon McKenna, and in the blank for ON THE OCCASION OF it said, Her baptism