Intervention

  The reporter wouldn’t quit. “I know you’re angry at me for coming in here and talking to Lance. I’m sorry about that. But I sincerely want to help you find Emily.”

  She swung back around. “Don’t pretend you care about her! You want ratings. You all do.”

  “Okay, I admit it. But you should use that. Who cares why we’re interested in Emily, if it helps you find her?”

  He was right. She had to do this. She drew in a deep breath. “All right. Then help me set up a press conference.”

  “There’s no need for that. I can put you on camera now. My cameraman is downstairs.”

  “No, I’ll talk to you all together at a press conference.”

  He sighed. “Fair enough. I’ll set it up. Tell me when and where.”

  Her brain raced. “I don’t know. I don’t want them here at our hotel. How did you find us, anyway?”

  “I was checking the hotels in the airport area, asking if they’d seen Emily. One of the clerks let it slip that you’d checked in.”

  “Great.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. You could do it on the steps of the police headquarters, if you want. Or outside the airport.”

  Airport security would surely run her off. But the police department might be the best option. Would the police do more if they knew she was talking to the press?

  She missed her husband, and his clear head, and his wise insight. Why couldn’t he have been here to help her through this? What would he do?

  Of course he would want her to do the interview. The more people looking for Emily, the better. And Lance was right. If they could humanize Emily, make people understand that she wasn’t a cold killer …

  “Okay, I’ll do it. Let’s go now.”

  “You have to give me time to notify the rest of the media. If we give them two hours, it’ll be a better turnout.”

  Two hours for him to exclusively report whatever Lance had told him. But it was too late to do anything about that. “Okay, whatever. Two hours.”

  “Maybe we can get the detectives involved to make a statement too.”

  She wasn’t sure that would be a good thing.

  The man backed out of the room. “All right, then. I’ll see you at the police department on Ponce de Leon in two hours.” He thrust her a business card. “Call me if you need me before then.”

  She took the card and closed the door behind him. Then she turned back to her son. “Lance, what did you tell him?”

  “Just that she’s not a killer. He’ll help us, Mom. She’s my sister. I want her to be all right.”

  “But letting strangers into our room when your sister is already in danger is more than I can handle.”

  “I know, but he was from ABC News. He told me through the door, so I thought it would be okay.”

  “No, you didn’t. You knew it wasn’t okay. I can’t ground you here. I can’t turn you over my knee.” She gave in to her tears.

  “I won’t do it again, Mom.”

  She wiped the tears. “I can’t lose another child.”

  “You haven’t lost Emily.”

  She collapsed on the bed. “He wouldn’t have left, volunteering to set up the press conference, if he didn’t get some juicy, exclusive bit of news to report first. Tell me what it was.”

  “Nothing. I just told him she was a nice girl. That she’d been a cheerleader in middle school. That she was raised in church and Sunday school and that she was a cool sister sometimes. That she was a victim — not the killer — and that we’re really, really worried about her.”

  If that was all, it didn’t sound harmful. Maybe he really hadn’t done any damage. If he had, she would know soon enough.

  As if reading her mind, Lance turned on the TV and changed the channel to ABC. That knot in Barbara’s gut tightened yet again.

  Her mind was fogged with fatigue and frustration, but she had to pull herself together and figure out what she was going to say on national television.

  fifteen

  The Day-Nite Motel wasn’t new to Kent Harlan. He’d been there before to investigate shootings. Occasionally, drug dealers turned on scheming clients who didn’t have money, and people here wound up dead.

  The manager, who sat in the front office, claimed no one fitting the couple’s description had checked in last night. So he and Andy went from door to door, showing Emily’s picture and asking the hookers and addicts if they’d seen her. No one admitted to it.

  On their way back to the office, they went by the cab company and showed Emily’s picture to the cab driver. “Is this the girl you picked up at the airport the other night?”

  “Let me see.” The driver, a Jamaican named Bastian, studied it way too long.

  Kent had little patience. “Either it is or it isn’t. Which is it?”

  “It look a little like her. Blonde. But I didn’t look at her dat hard.”

  “What about the guy she was with?” Andy asked.

  “Brown hair. Five ten or eleven, maybe. Skinny.”

  “Did they call each other by name?”

  “I don’t remember, mon.”

  “Did they ask to go to the Day-Nite specifically?”

  “De man did. Dey wanted to score some dope.”

  Kent studied him for a moment. Could he be involved in the case too? “What did you do after you dropped them off?”

  “Went back to de airport and worked until tree a.m.”

  That was true. Kent had already reviewed the dispatch records for the night. Bastian had many more fares after taking the couple to the motel, so it was doubtful that he’d committed foul play.

  When they’d gotten all they could out of him, they headed back to the office. On the way, Kent swung through a Krispy Kreme to get coffee. His lack of sleep was catching up with him, but he had to keep going. As he idled in the drive-thru line, he looked over at Andy, who looked just as weary. “So we can’t confirm for sure that Emily was even the one in the cab?”

  Andy yawned. “We can confirm that the person in the cab had Trish’s credit card. Why are you having trouble believing that this is a simple, cut-and-dried case? That Emily Covington killed Trish Massey and ran away with her credit card to buy drugs?”

  “Because it’s too crazy that she’d have a syringe with Tubarine on her. And where would she have hidden the chloroform? Besides, she’s small and skinny. She didn’t look strong enough to fight Trish enough to get the chloroform rag over her mouth.”

  “She could have just taken her by surprise. You know as well as I do that some drugs do incite violence. In her fried mind, she may have thought murder was her only option. Despite what her mother said about the intervention being a surprise, she could have found out and prepared to kill her way out.”

  “All she had to do was refuse to go. She’s eighteen. Her mother couldn’t force her.”

  “I’m just saying … Her brain was toxic. She wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  That, Kent knew, was certainly plausible, even if it was a stretch. His own brother sat in prison now, after holding a loaded gun to a convenience store clerk’s head and demanding cash. Drugs had set the course for the rest of his life. An intoxicated brain might have led the girl to the same insanity.

  The only way to know for sure was to find Emily Covington.

  sixteen

  A mob of reporters stood in front of the police station as Barbara and Lance arrived in their Expedition.

  Lance grinned. “No way. All this for us?”

  Barbara thought she might throw up. Her chest felt suddenly tight, her breath trapped in little cages in her lungs.

  “Wait till my friends see us!” he said. “I’ll be getting texts all day.”

  Last night he’d been worried what his friends would think when they heard the news. Today he was flattered by his own celebrity. She tried to draw in enough breath to keep from fainting. She needed to stay conscious at least long enough to find a parking place.

  But with all the news vans, she had no idea whe
re she would put her car.

  Suddenly Richard Gray, the reporter who’d finagled his way into their room, stepped out to the curb and waved them down. She slowed long enough to see him pointing to a spot around the corner. He trotted alongside the car as she drove toward it.

  “See? I told you he was a nice guy.”

  She saw him as the one who’d opened her vein and was now trying to catch the blood with a bucket. She reached the space and saw that he’d stationed two cameramen there. They stepped out of the way and allowed her to pull in.

  The cameras were already rolling. She tried to pull in a breath and turned to her son. “So help me, if you say one word when we get out of this car, I’m sending you home. Got that?”

  “You mean I can’t talk at the press conference?”

  “No! Your sister is suspected of murder, and one wrong sibling anecdote could put her away for life.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Richard knocked on the window.

  She ignored him. “I’m serious, Lance. Not one word or we’ll go straight to the airport after the press conference. You’ll be on the next flight home.”

  “Okay, I get it!”

  She opened the door and stepped out of the car. The blood flow hadn’t returned to her head. She was even more certain she would pass out. Heat prickled her underarms, her chest, her back. Her mouth was like cotton.

  “I told you it’d be a great turnout, Mrs. Covington,” Richard said, thrusting his microphone toward her. “Do you have anything you want to say to our cameras before you get started?”

  She went around the car as Lance got out. “Thank you for setting this up,” she muttered.

  Others realized she had arrived, but none of the cameras flew toward her as they would have if it were, say, Emily walking up. She had to be thankful for that. Richard escorted her as though he were her publicist, but a police officer stepped through the reporters and met her halfway.

  “Mrs. Covington, I’m Clyde Purvis, the chief of police here in Atlanta. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  His challenge energized her, and she flung her chin up. “I have to find my daughter.”

  “But if you could postpone this until a little later in the day, we were going to make a statement, anyway.”

  She stopped and looked up at the man in his uniform. “Do you have some new information? Have you found Emily?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m afraid not.”

  “Where is Kent Harlan?”

  “He’s busy investigating the crime.”

  “Is he looking for the real killer, or still trying to pin this on my daughter?”

  “He’s trying to bring resolution. May I at least read your statement?”

  She glanced back at the camera following her. “I didn’t write it down. I was going to speak from my heart. You’ll have to hear it with everyone else.”

  He leaned down and said into her ear, “Mrs. Covington, please don’t disclose any details of the case. That could seriously hamper the investigation, and even cause your daughter harm.”

  She looked at the crowd, second-guessing her decision.

  “I won’t.” She pushed past him and reached the steps, and a flurry of activity buzzed around her. Battling reporters spoke into their own cameras, prepping for her statement. She got to the jumble of microphones and looked back to see where Lance was. He was right behind her.

  She took his sweaty hand, pulled him next to her, and clung with all her might. She cleared her throat.

  Everyone grew quiet, but she was aware of the cars passing on the street and the helicopter flying overhead, the hum of the air conditioner on the lawn of the police station. How would anyone hear?

  She cleared her throat, and realized the microphones did nothing to amplify her voice. She spoke as loudly as she could. “My name is Barbara Covington, and this is my son Lance. My daughter is Emily Covington, age eighteen. Emily is a beautiful young lady, as I’m sure you all know from her pictures. She’s very precious to me.” The words broke off in her throat, and she felt her lips trembling.

  Forcing herself, she went on. “As many of you have already reported, we hired Trish Massey this week to come to our home and escort my daughter to treatment for some … some problems she was having.” She looked out into the flashing cameras. What would she tell them about the nature of Emily’s addictions? Wouldn’t the truth make her sound like she could be a crazed killer?

  She decided that the less she said, the better. “My daughter went with Trish willingly. She went through security willingly and got on the plane willingly, and had every intention of arriving at their destination at the Road Back Recovery Center in Emerson, Georgia, north of Atlanta.

  “I heard from my daughter when they landed. They were on their way to baggage claim. I spoke to Trish, and she told me that they were fine, and that the flight had been uneventful. They were going to call me when they arrived at Road Back.” She tried to swallow. “Something terrible happened after that.”

  She stopped and tried to keep from breaking down in front of them all. “Sometime after that, Trish was murdered, and my daughter Emily vanished. I’m here to plead with all of you to help me find Emily and bring her home. She didn’t kill Trish. She’s not violent and never has been.”

  Cameras clicked and she glanced back at Lance again. He was doing just as he’d been told. Staying quiet.

  She leaned into the bank of microphones. “I believe that whoever killed Trish Massey has my daughter. She’s naive and young and not in good health, and she doesn’t have the resources she needs to fight a violent killer who may have abducted her. Please … if anyone has any information … ”

  She stopped again, and realized that she didn’t have a phone number to give them. Should she give out her cell number on national television? What if she was barraged with calls from reporters and Emily couldn’t get through?

  She decided to give them Lance’s number. “If you have information … please call me at 573-555-3232. Thank you.”

  She tried to step away, but the reporters called out to her like rabid fans at a hockey game.

  “Mrs. Covington, is your daughter a drug addict?”

  She paused, knowing this had to be addressed. “She … uh … has had some recent problems with substance abuse, but she was ready to get help.”

  “Have you had any communication from her?”

  “No. She doesn’t have her cell phone and only had ten dollars.”

  “Mrs. Covington, where is her father?”

  Her stomach roiled. “My husband died of cancer a few years ago.”

  “Did Emily have friends here in Atlanta?”

  “None that we know of. She doesn’t know her way around Atlanta, and if she’s been abducted by whoever did this, then her life could be in danger too. Please, if any of you know where she is, I’m begging you to come forward. Or if there were witnesses who saw her in the Atlanta airport yesterday, if you could tell us if you saw anyone with her and Trish … or if you know of anyone who had reason to hurt Trish, please, call me or the Atlanta police. One life has already been lost, and I’m begging you not to let my daughter’s life be taken too.”

  They were like vultures, pecking at her with their questions. She turned and tried to step away again, but she’d been closed in from behind.

  “Tell us about your daughter, Mrs. Covington,” a voice called above the noise. “Give us a feel for what she’s like.”

  It was Richard, their tormenter/savior. She wanted to ignore him, but then she realized that the question might be just what she needed. Sighing, she turned back to the microphones.

  Trying to steady her trembling mouth, she said, “Emily has been a precious child since she was born. She was very sensitive, and writes and paints and dances ballet … She was a cheerleader in middle school, and was elected Class Favorite her freshman year. She has a lot of promise.”

  What could she tell them that would make them understand? “She took her fathe
r’s death very hard, as we all did. But she never quite bounced back from it. She’s been depressed for the last four years. I believe that’s why she wound up with a substance abuse problem. We did stage an intervention for her yesterday, and I believe she truly wants to get better.”

  She picked one of the cameras and looked into it. “Emily, if you can hear me, please do whatever you can to get to a phone and call me. I’m worried about you. I need to know you’re okay. Please. We love you and are praying for you, and I’m doing everything I can to find you.”

  She couldn’t say more. She turned to go again.

  “Was your daughter desperate, Mrs. Covington?”

  She couldn’t step away with that hanging in the air. “She wasn’t what I’d call desperate. She was nervous about what to expect in rehab, as anyone would be.”

  “What was her drug of choice?”

  “I don’t want to get into that right now. It has no bearing on what happened yesterday.”

  “Doesn’t methamphetamine make people violent and combative? Doesn’t it give them more strength than they normally would have? Paranoia?”

  “It wasn’t meth.”

  “Even cocaine — ”

  “I’m not commenting on my daughter’s drugs!” she bit out.

  “Why didn’t you take her yourself?” someone asked.

  There was no escaping this. She should have listened to the police chief. “I thought she would talk me out of it on the way. I thought with a professional interventionist, her fears might be calmed and things might go better.”

  “Then you clearly knew that she might balk and run.”

  Now she was in a mess. Her mind raced for an answer. “She was traveling with Trish in good faith because I sent her, and something horrible happened. Rather than focusing on what my daughter’s addictions were, or why I hired Trish to help her, you should focus on helping me find her.”

  That was when the police chief took over. He parted the crowd and stepped up to the mike, allowing her to escape inside the building. She pulled Lance with her. Behind her, she heard the chief announcing another press conference at three that afternoon, at which time they would share what they could about the murder.