Page 39 of Nowhere Good

Yess gave him a look. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we do do our jobs here.”

Seth ignored his comment and scanned the names. At a glance, none were familiar.

The sudden trill of the tip line ringing cut into the moment, and curious, Seth watched as Yess swiftly picked it up.

“Fairview PD, anonymous tip line… you’re talkin’ to me, I can take your statement… look buddy, this is the third time you’ve called—the detective does not have time to chat with every Tom, Dick, and Harry.” He made a twirling motion at his temple as he spun back in the chair. “I’ll make sure he gets your statement.”

Seth held out his hand. Yess rolled his eyes and passed it off, and Seth pressed the phone to his ear, facing the rest of the bullpen.

“This is Detective Winslow.”

Only the crackling of the phone filled the silence.

“Hello?”

Finally, a man’s voice, unnervingly calm: “Did you find her?’

“Find who?”

“I left the map with him, but you still haven’t found her.”

“Who did you leave what map with?”

No answer. Seth exchanged a glance with Yess, this time, sharing his annoyance.

“Sir,” he said, “I appreciate you calling in. If you have any information about—”

“The other detective,” the voice cut in. “I don’t think he was very good at his job. Are you better?”

Seth frowned. “What other detective?”

“The old man. I left the map with him. He should’ve found her. Mrs. Dyer.”

His spine crawled. Dyer. There was that name again, popping up in his investigation, but there was no Mrs. Dyer—Claire’s mother, Ron’s wife, had died twenty years ago. Unless he was talking about Clementine Dyer, Claire’s sister, but her whereabouts was no secret. This had to be a prank—but why?

“Who is Mrs. Dyer?” he asked, gaining a perplexed look from Yess, along with another officer and his desk nearby. Although this probably was nothing, Seth played along, just in case.

“She’s been gone for so long,” the voice droned on. “Can you please find her? This doesn’t work without her.”

“Well, I don’t have the map. You said you gave it to the other detective?”

“Yes. It must be somewhere. Please do your job.”

“Hold on, what’s your name? We can find her together.”

“Time’s up.”

The line went dead.

Standing in Chief Wells’s office, Seth finished the playback of the recording, which he’d downloaded to his phone from the tip line. Chief Wells sat at her desk with a thoughtful frown. She had photos of her family around too—smiling little girls with curly black hair, a radiant woman in her forties who must’ve been Wells’s daughter. On the wall behind her, years of police accolades. She’d been the chief here for over twenty years.

“The number isn’t registered to anyone, so likely a burner,” Seth explained. “We couldn’t get a trace on it. What do you make of it?”

“Hm.” Wells’s hand traveled to the cross necklace around her throat, fidgeting with it. She caught herself and regained her poise, interlocking her fingers. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Detective Haylock never mentioned any ‘map,’ and if this had any credibility at all, he would’ve told me.”

“Humor me. Do you think the caller is talking about Ron Dyer’s wife?”

“Most likely, yes, but she died twenty years ago. How old were you then, five?”