“I need to reach out to him,” she said. “Meet him. Talk to him.”
“Alone? No way. Take me with you.”
“I already told you that I can’t break privilege. I can’t let you find out who he is.” Jason didn’t answer, and she added, “I’m sorry.”
“This is the way it always is between us,” he snapped.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s you on your own, Frankie. It’s never you and me.”
“That’s not true. It’s not my choice.”
“Of course it is. You don’t need me. You don’t need Pam. You don’t need anybody.”
“Jason—”
“Do what you want,” he snapped. “I’ll see you at home.”
He turned around and stalked out of the office. The first door slammed, and then she heard the outer door slam, too. She was alone again.
He’s wrong, she thought.
She didn’t need to keep the rest of the world off her island. Or maybe she was just kidding herself. She’d learned her lessons from her father growing up. Don’t ask for help. Don’t need anyone else, because they won’t be there for you.
Frankie opened Todd Ferris’s file and found the patient information sheet that every new patient completed. Hesitating, she keyed the number of his cell phone. She tried to think about what she would tell him. When she heard the phone ringing, she held her breath.
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice.
Frankie was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, I was trying to reach Todd.”
“Who?”
“Todd Ferris.”
“You got the wrong number,” the woman replied.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Frankie rattled off the number she’d dialed, thinking she’d made a mistake, but the woman said, “That’s the number, but no Todd here. Good-bye.”
“Wait, sorry. Can you just tell me, did you recently acquire this phone number?”
“I’ve had it for six years. Now good-bye, okay?”
The woman on the other end of the line hung up. Frankie stared at the patient information form. It was handwritten, not typed. Each patient filled in the details personally.
Todd Ferris had given her a fake phone number.
21
The only evidence Frost found at Christie Parke’s apartment in Millbrae was a ticket from a downtown parking ramp in the cup holder of her Honda Civic. It was stamped on Friday morning at 7:36 a.m. As far as Frost could tell, no one had seen Christie again until her date with Noah on Saturday night.
The parking ramp was on California Street, where the financial district bled into Chinatown. The ramp attendant was a dark-skinned Filipino kid with black hair that sprouted from his head like wheatgrass. Frost guessed that he was no older than nineteen. His long legs were propped on the office desk as he watched the Giants on television and ate cold lumpia from a plastic container. The name tag on his shirt said Arne.
Frost introduced himself, and Arne sprang to his feet.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
He dangled a plastic evidence bag in front of the kid’s face. “This ticket came from your ramp, right?”
Arne leaned closer and studied it. “Yes, sure did.”
“The date stamp shows a car entering this ramp on Friday morning. The bank where the owner worked is just a couple blocks away, but she never showed up. Is there a way to look up when she left?”
“Sure, sure, come on over.”
Arne rolled his wheely chair to a flat-screen monitor and keyboard. When he nudged the mouse, the screen awakened and revealed a series of camera angles on different levels of the underground ramp. He clicked on an app that showed daily ticketing activity.
“What’s the number on the end of the ticket?” Arne asked.
Frost rattled it off, and the kid’s fingers flew on the keyboard.
“Here you go. In on Friday at seven thirty-six a.m., just like you said. She didn’t stay long. Ticket stamped back out on Friday at seven forty-nine a.m.”
“Less than fifteen minutes?” Frost asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Frost frowned. Christie worked at one of the downtown branches of Wells Fargo. According to her supervisor, Christie had a client meeting scheduled in Santa Rosa on Friday afternoon, which meant driving to work that day, not taking BART as she usually did. Instead, she missed work and missed her meeting. And yet here she was, arriving at the ramp downtown on Friday morning — and then heading back out almost immediately.
“Your security cameras,” Frost said. “How far back do you keep the video?”
“A month. Then the files get deleted automatically.”
“Can you pull up footage from the entry and exit camera on Friday morning?”
“Sure,” Arne replied. “It’s all web-based now. The app saves a new file for every camera every hour.”
He clicked over to the archive and selected Friday from a calendar pop-up. He chose the camera focused on the main entrance and played the video file beginning at 7:00 a.m.
“We should have her going in and out in the same file. What time did she come in? Just after seven thirty? I’ll speed it up.”
Frost saw a steady stream of cars entering the ramp in fast motion. When the on-screen clock approached the time at which Christie Parke entered the ramp, Arne slowed the video down to normal speed. Frost watched two more cars turn into the garage, and then, after a gap of about ninety seconds, he recognized Christie’s burgundy Honda Civic and matched the license plate. The car stopped at the ticket machine, and he saw a woman’s slim bare arm reach from the window to take a ticket.
“Freeze it,” Frost said.
The video motion stopped.
“Can you zoom in?”
“A little, but this isn’t high-def.”
Arne was right. By the time he’d enlarged the video to make out the front window, the features of the driver were unrecognizable. Even so, the woman’s general look was consistent with the photographs Frost had seen of Christie Parke.
“Okay, keep going,” Frost said.
He watched the car disappear. There was another minute-long gap before the next vehicle entered the ramp. He waited to see a few more cars turn into the garage, and then he asked Arne to fast-forward the video to Christie’s departure time. At that time of the morning, the exit lane was mostly unused. The only departing vehicle he saw was Christie’s Civic, which pulled up to the payment machine at 7:49 a.m.
“Maybe she forgot something,” Arne suggested. And then he whistled. “Whoa.”
“Freeze it!” Frost said.
Arne wasn’t fast enough, and he had to back up the video. Then he stopped the playback just as an arm reached from the window of the Civic to insert the ticket in the payment machine. It was the same car — Christie’s car. But Christie wasn’t driving. The arm they saw was covered by the sleeve of a black sweatshirt, and the hand with the ticket was protected by a surgical glove.
“That don’t look like her,” Arne muttered.
“No, it sure doesn’t. What other cameras do you have in the ramp?”
“We’ve got a camera on each aisle on each floor.”
“I need to see where she parked,” Frost said.
“Yeah, sure, let’s take a look.”
Arne went back to the archives and selected a camera focused on the first aisle on the next level down. Only seconds after she arrived in the garage, Christie’s Civic drove into view on the down ramp and passed a full slate of parked cars and disappeared. Arne tracked her back up the next aisle and down another level.
“There,” Frost said.
The Civic pulled beyond an open parking space at the far end of the ramp, and Christie backed into the empty spot. He saw the car’s headlights go dark as she turned off the engine. A few more seconds passed, and then he saw Christie Parke appear, purse over her shoulder, her phone in her hand. She made the long walk from one end of the ramp to the other, getting closer to the camera.