I glanced at Lauren. She was standing against the wall, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes on D.J.

“I asked her what was wrong,” he said. “But she didn’t want to talk. So I asked where she needed to go. And she said she didn’t know.”

I nodded.

“I told her it was gonna be hard for me to take her anywhere then,” he continued. “And I told her she either needed to pick a place or get out because I couldn’t just sit in the taxi line at the airport.”

A muscle worked in my jaw. “And?”

“And she said she didn’t know where she needed to go,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Then she asked how far San Diego was. I told her too far.”

“So where did you take her?” I asked, frustrated and running out of patience.

“She asked me to take her in the direction of San Diego,” he said. “I said I’d go twenty minutes max. That was it.”

“Where did you take her?” Anchor asked, sensing my frustration. “Specifically.”

“We went PCH,” D.J. said. “405 was jammed and we wouldn’t have gone anywhere. So we got to Redondo.”

“And then what?” I asked. “You dropped her at the beach? A mall? What?”

“Hotel,” he said. “She picked out a couple of crappy ones, but I told her they weren’t good ideas.”

Anchor had his phone out, poking at the screen and scrolling.

“So I dropped her at the Crowne Plaza,” he said.

“Did you wait on her?” I asked. “Make sure she got in?”

He shook his head. “No. I needed to get back for my next fare. I ran a bunch more before I got called here. And I still don’t get why. Are you gonna tell me?”

“She’d be under Corzine, correct?” Anchor asked, putting the phone to his ear.

“Yeah,” Lauren said, heading for the door. “Ellie Corzine.”

They walked out together and I followed them.

“So no one’s gonna tell me?” D.J. yelled. “That’s it?”

That was it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“If she’s not there, why are we going?” Lauren asked.

We were back in the SUV, heading south on the freeway. Even at that hour, the roads were clogged with traffic. Anchor had called the hotel. No one was registered under the name Ellie Corzine.

“She could be using another name,” I said. “Maybe someone will remember her. It’s following the trail.”

Anchor nodded from the front passenger seat.

Lauren sighed and leaned her head back against the seat.

Finding someone almost always came from following a trail, any trail. The work was in the minute details. Phone calls, emails, interviewing. Talking to people who had talked to whomever you were looking for. Tracking down anything related to the missing person, no matter how small. It was boring, it was tiring and it was tedious. But that was how you found people. You didn’t pass on any opportunities. Because you never knew what you’d find.

We rode in silence and I stared out the window, watching the traffic and the buildings, trying to orient myself to once again being in Southern California. With the freeways and buildings stacked right next to each other, it felt nearly claustrophobic after driving through Utah and Nevada. There was no room to move or breathe.

Kitting directed the car off the freeway and leaned over, whispering something to Anchor. Anchor nodded, glanced in his rearview mirror and nodded again.

The side streets were empty compared to the freeway, the traffic lights creating an uncomfortable ebb and flow as we worked our way westward. The industrial buildings began to give way to bungalow homes, trendy restaurants and coffee shops. We hit PCH and turned south into Redondo Beach and the only glimpse I could get of the Pacific made it look like a massive black pool.

The Crowne Plaza was off North Harbor Drive, an impressive five-story structure surrounded by palm trees. Kitting pulled the SUV under the arches and a bellhop immediately opened Anchor’s door, then mine and Lauren’s. Kitting stayed put.

The bellhop was young, probably college-aged, sporting blond hair, blue eyes and an affable smile. “Checking in, folks?”

“We’ll let you know,” Anchor said, brushing past him.

His smile faded and Lauren and I followed Anchor into an expansive lobby lined with columns and potted palm trees. The white floor tiles were polished smooth.

“I need to make a call,” Anchor said. “Excuse me for a moment.”

I nodded and headed for the check-in desk, where another blonde haired, blue-eyed male smiled at me. “Welcome, folks. Checking in?”

“We’re actually looking for a guest,” I said. “Ellie Corzine.”

“Do you have a room number, sir?” he asked.

“I do not,” I said. “And I actually don’t think she’s staying here.”

He squinted at me. “Excuse me?”

There was no story I could give him other than the truth, so I told him why we were there.

“I just came on an hour ago,” he said when I was done. “I work the overnights. So I don’t think I saw her. Let me grab my manager. Excuse me for just a second.”

He disappeared through a door behind the counter.

I scanned the lobby. Anchor was lounging against one of the columns, talking into his phone.

Lauren was looking around, too. “It’s weird to think she was just here.”

“It is, I agree.”

“Like I can almost feel her here, you know?”

I nodded. It was how I’d felt, standing at the registration desk at the hotel in Denver.

“I mean, I know that sounds stupid,” Lauren said. “But it’s like I can feel her here. Like she was standing right here, the exact same place.” She shook her head. “So strange.”

“Sir?” a voice said behind me.

I turned back to the counter. A woman around my age, dressed in a maroon business suit smiled at me. Large gold earrings hung from her ears and her face was covered with a thick sheen of makeup.

“Sir, I’m Valerie Beltran,” she said. “I’m the night manager here at the Crowne Plaza.”

I introduced myself and Lauren and repeated why we were there.

She nodded thoughtfully. “I checked our guest register. We don’t show anyone listed by that name. And I think I can tell you why.”

“Why?”

“She would’ve needed to provide identification,” Beltran said. “Given what you’ve told me, we would’ve been unable to provide her with a room because she’s under the age of eighteen. That’s our policy.”

“No exceptions?”

“None. Ever.” She shook her head, emphatic. “It’s corporate policy and I can tell you we adhere to it. We regularly have high-school-aged students come here, looking to stay the night for a dance or other activity. Unless there is an adult over the age of eighteen, we cannot and will not accommodate them.”

That made sense. It was a liability issue as well as smart business. If teenagers were trying to snag a hotel room, more than likely, it meant they were looking to do things that might get them in trouble if they tried to do them at home.

“Do you have a policy as to how you handle any minors looking to check-in?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. Generally, we just politely decline them. If they get angry, we remind them that we can call the authorities. That’s usually all it takes.”

“But if a teenage girl shows up here all alone?” Lauren asked. “With no one else and no belongings? You’d just send her away?”

Beltran pursed her lips, then nodded. “Yes. We would. It’s not our place to police. And while I’m not passing judgment on the young girl you’re looking for, you’d be surprised at what kids will attempt  to do to obtain a room. They’ll claim to be alone, when they’ve got six friends outside. They’ll claim that their parent is on their way, or that their parents made the reservation. They’ll try to pull every scam you can think of in order to get in here.” She shook her head again. “They can be very resourceful. But our policy is to decline, plain and simple. We don’t police because we can’t.”

Lauren looked away, not bothering to hide her disgust.