said. He didn’t elaborate. Maya finally noticed him standing patiently, palm out.
She pulled herself together, shook her head, handed the BlackBerry back to him. “And that’s all there is?”
“That’s all.”
“No note? Anything?”
“Just what I’ve showed you,” Barnhill said. “Our office is preparing a press release to the other outlets now. But you’re here, and I’m new to this county, and I believe it’s time I made a friend in the TV business.”
“I feel like we’re old pals already,” Maya said. “What do you know that won’t be in the press release?”
“I haven’t seen a draft yet, so I’d say that determination is ongoing,” Barnhill said. “What we know so far is that Juliet Benson has a two-o’clock class on Wednesdays and that she attended class today. We know that she missed a study date at a coffee shop off campus at four o’clock. I have deputies on campus now, and Minneapolis PD is supporting us there. Personnel from that group have determined that the girl’s car is not currently located in the student parking lotshe normally uses. According to Mr. Benson, it could be her car in the photo, but there’s not enough for him to make a positive ID. Either way, the Bolo call on that vehicle went out over police channels twenty minutes ago.”
Listening to all of this, Maya couldn’t help extrapolating time frames in her head. A two-o’clock class, a four-o’clock study date. It was entirely possible, she realized, that at the very time she and Rose Ann had been sitting around at the station, chatting about happy endings, Juliet Benson was being forced into the trunk of her own car.
Detective Barnhill went back to the desk, replaced the phones, and picked up the file folder. From inside the folder he took a sheet of paper with another photograph—a good old-fashioned print this time—paper-clipped to the corner.
“This is part of what’s going out to everybody,” he said, handing the page to Maya. “Juliet Benson’s full description, our hotline info, so forth. This photograph came from her mother’s purse and I’m told it’s recent, though certainly not as recent as whatever footage you’ve obtained. You’ve done the rest before, I assume.”
“Police are seeking the public’s assistance in locating a Minneapolis woman,” Maya said, appraising the new photo: Cheryl Benson and her daughter in tennis dresses, arm in arm. Juliet had her dad’s eyes and her mother’s smile. Maya looked at Detective Barnhill. “Surely we’re using the word missing?”
“Missing and endangered,” Barnhill said. “We’ll want to name the campus as her last known location,mark the time at three p.m. this afternoon. Everything else …”
“Authorities have yet to disclose further details,” Maya said.
At last, Benson’s attorney spoke up from his spot in the corner. “Detective, about the reward.”
Maya looked at Clay. Looked at Barnhill. Detective Barnhill took what seemed like a measured breath, then nodded toward the page in Maya’s hand. “Mr. Clay’s firm wishes to secure a private cash reward for any information leading to Miss Benson’s safe return. That information is also included on the sheet you have there.”
Maya looked back at Morton Clay. He seemed unsatisfied but remained silent. She slipped the photograph free of its clip. “Do you have a soft copy of this?”
“Our public-information office does. Give me an email address and I’ll tell them where to send it.”
Maya was already eyeballing the multifunction office printer on Terry Spilker’s desk. “That has a scanner, right?”
Spilker nodded. “If you know how to run the thing. I don’t.”
“May I?”
“By all means.”
Five minutes later, from behind Terry Spilker’s computer monitor, Maya used the superintendent’s office phone to call Miles Oltman at the station.
“Ticktock,” her assignment editor said. “How we doing?”
“I sent you something,” Maya told
She pulled herself together, shook her head, handed the BlackBerry back to him. “And that’s all there is?”
“That’s all.”
“No note? Anything?”
“Just what I’ve showed you,” Barnhill said. “Our office is preparing a press release to the other outlets now. But you’re here, and I’m new to this county, and I believe it’s time I made a friend in the TV business.”
“I feel like we’re old pals already,” Maya said. “What do you know that won’t be in the press release?”
“I haven’t seen a draft yet, so I’d say that determination is ongoing,” Barnhill said. “What we know so far is that Juliet Benson has a two-o’clock class on Wednesdays and that she attended class today. We know that she missed a study date at a coffee shop off campus at four o’clock. I have deputies on campus now, and Minneapolis PD is supporting us there. Personnel from that group have determined that the girl’s car is not currently located in the student parking lotshe normally uses. According to Mr. Benson, it could be her car in the photo, but there’s not enough for him to make a positive ID. Either way, the Bolo call on that vehicle went out over police channels twenty minutes ago.”
Listening to all of this, Maya couldn’t help extrapolating time frames in her head. A two-o’clock class, a four-o’clock study date. It was entirely possible, she realized, that at the very time she and Rose Ann had been sitting around at the station, chatting about happy endings, Juliet Benson was being forced into the trunk of her own car.
Detective Barnhill went back to the desk, replaced the phones, and picked up the file folder. From inside the folder he took a sheet of paper with another photograph—a good old-fashioned print this time—paper-clipped to the corner.
“This is part of what’s going out to everybody,” he said, handing the page to Maya. “Juliet Benson’s full description, our hotline info, so forth. This photograph came from her mother’s purse and I’m told it’s recent, though certainly not as recent as whatever footage you’ve obtained. You’ve done the rest before, I assume.”
“Police are seeking the public’s assistance in locating a Minneapolis woman,” Maya said, appraising the new photo: Cheryl Benson and her daughter in tennis dresses, arm in arm. Juliet had her dad’s eyes and her mother’s smile. Maya looked at Detective Barnhill. “Surely we’re using the word missing?”
“Missing and endangered,” Barnhill said. “We’ll want to name the campus as her last known location,mark the time at three p.m. this afternoon. Everything else …”
“Authorities have yet to disclose further details,” Maya said.
At last, Benson’s attorney spoke up from his spot in the corner. “Detective, about the reward.”
Maya looked at Clay. Looked at Barnhill. Detective Barnhill took what seemed like a measured breath, then nodded toward the page in Maya’s hand. “Mr. Clay’s firm wishes to secure a private cash reward for any information leading to Miss Benson’s safe return. That information is also included on the sheet you have there.”
Maya looked back at Morton Clay. He seemed unsatisfied but remained silent. She slipped the photograph free of its clip. “Do you have a soft copy of this?”
“Our public-information office does. Give me an email address and I’ll tell them where to send it.”
Maya was already eyeballing the multifunction office printer on Terry Spilker’s desk. “That has a scanner, right?”
Spilker nodded. “If you know how to run the thing. I don’t.”
“May I?”
“By all means.”
Five minutes later, from behind Terry Spilker’s computer monitor, Maya used the superintendent’s office phone to call Miles Oltman at the station.
“Ticktock,” her assignment editor said. “How we doing?”
“I sent you something,” Maya told
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