Chapter 4: Tyler

I leave the townhouse through the back door and walk over to the carriage house, where I find Kimi seated at the reception desk, busily typing something into her phone.

When she sees me enter, she finishes up what she's doing and presses a button. "I sent you all the information you asked for. If you need anything else, let me know, and I'll run it down for you."

I nod. "Thanks. I'm heading out. I'll let you know as soon as I find something."

Kimi swallows hard and nods shakily. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. J."

"No need to thank me." I hold out my hand. "Can I have the key to your apartment? I'll stop there first to make sure she hasn't returned since you left this morning."

Kimi pulls her key off her keychain and hands it to me. "I'm afraid our apartment is a mess. I didn't do the dishes last night, and—well, it's a mess."

"Don't worry. It's fine. I'll be in touch."

I leave the carriage house and hop into my car. As I pull away from the townhouse, I'm hit with an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu . It wasn't that long ago that Ian's younger sister, Layla, went missing. She was about the same age as Dina is now. It turned out that it was her shitty bodyguard at the time who sold her out to a sex trafficker. I was on administrative leave from work at the time, and prohibited from doing any investigatory work, but I couldn't not help Ian's sister. Ian and I worked together to find her, save her, and in the process we rescued a bunch of other young women who'd been abducted for the same purpose.

Finding Ian's sister cost me my twenty-four-year police career, but I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. I hope Kimi's roommate isn't caught up in something that bad. You never know with cases like these. It might be something simple as taking off and forgetting to call her roommate, or it could be something serious. I'm hoping for the former.

It's a twenty-minute drive to Kimi's apartment in Rogers Park. She and Dina live in a unit on the third floor of an older brick building. Because of its age, there's no elevator. As I climb three flights of stairs, I hear TV sets playing behind closed apartment doors—mostly game shows and soap operas from the sound of it—as well as the occasional dog barking.

When I reach Apartment 3D, I knock first in case Dina is home. I don't want to walk in unannounced and scare the living daylights out of her. When there's no answer to my repeated knocks, I let myself in using Kimi's key.

The apartment is cool and dark, and it smells like pumpkin spice air freshener. I flip on some lights. "Dina? Are you here? I'm Tyler Jamison, Kimi's friend. She's worried about you."

When there's no reply, I begin a thorough search of the apartment, looking for signs of a struggle or forced entry. The door and window locks look untouched. And while the apartment looks lived in, there's no obvious sign of an altercation.

It's not a big place, so it takes me fewer than two minutes to verify she's not here. And it doesn't take me long to figure out which bedroom is hers. I find a pile of junk mail addressed to Dina Johnson lying on the nightstand beside the bed in the second bedroom.

There's nothing here that gives me any insight into where Dina might be, so I lock up the apartment on my way out and head back to my car. My next stop is to visit Teresa and Neil, as they were the last ones to see Dina before she got in her rideshare last night. According to Kimi's notes, Dina and Teresa work together at a restaurant.

It's another ten minutes to Teresa and Neil's apartment. They live in a more upscale complex, in an apartment on the second floor. I take the elevator up.

When I knock on the door, a woman answers. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she's still in her nightgown and robe. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail.

"Teresa Maxwell?"

The young woman nods as she opens the door wide. "Kimi told me you were going to stop by. Please, come in, detective."

I walk into the apartment and quickly scan the living room and kitchen. "I'm a private investigator, not a detective. Is your boyfriend here? Neil?"

She shakes her head. "No. He left at six this morning for work. He's a nurse. He works 12-hours shifts, so he won't be home until around eight this evening."

I motion to the sofa. "Have a seat, please. I'd like to ask you some questions." After she sits, I take a seat on the recliner across from her and pull out my notepad and pen. "From what I gather, you are probably one of the last people to see Dina last night. Tell me what you remember."

She proceeds to replay their movements from the night before. After having dinner at a local Chinese restaurant, they ended up at a nightclub called Jax.

"Dina called for a ride on one of the rideshare apps. Neil and I waited with her outside the club doors for her ride to show up. A car pulled up to the curb, and the driver waved to her. Dina walked up to the front passenger window and leaned in to speak to the driver. A moment later, she smiled and waved to us as she got into the back seat."

"What kind of car was it?"

"It was white, but I don't know the make and model."

"Four doors, I assume, if she got in the back seat?"

Teresa nods.

"What was her state of mind at that time?"

"What do you mean?" Teresa shrugs. "She seemed fine."

"How much had she had to drink? Do you think she was drunk?"

Teresa winces. "She'd had a lot to drink, but she wasn't wasted, just buzzed."

"Did you hear what she said to the driver? Did she confirm it was actually her ride?"

She shakes her head. "No, we were too far away to hear them. We were standing just outside the doorway, and it was really noisy behind us in the club."

"And you don't know which rideshare company she used?"

"No, I'm sorry. She uses more than one, so I can't be sure."

"You didn't see a logo on the car?"

"It was too dark, and I guess I wasn't paying that much attention. I assumed it was her ride."

"One last question for now," I say. "How do you know Dina? Kimi said you two are friends."

Teresa nods. "We work together at Maxine's, a restaurant in Rogers Park. Neil used to work there too, when he was a student. That's where we all met."

"What do you do there?"

"I'm a server."

"Both of you? Dina, too?"

"Yes."

"Is there anyone at the restaurant who has ever given Dina a hard time? Perhaps an employee or maybe a customer? Does she have any admirers? Or enemies?"

She shakes her head. "A hard time? No, I don't think so. Dina's never complained about anyone in particular. But she does get hit on a lot by customers. She's asked out a lot, too, sometimes repeatedly by the same guys, but she's never indicated anyone was a serious problem."

I nod as I finish up my notes. "Thank you for the information. I'll be in touch if I have any further questions."

Teresa walks me to the door, her face pale, her eyes framed by dark shadows. "You don't think something bad has happened to her, do you? I could never forgive myself if it had."

"I'm afraid I don't have any answers for you yet, but hopefully I will have some soon."

When I get back to my car, I use my phone to check the hours of operation for the nightclub they visited last night. As it turns out, Jax doesn't open until 4 PM. I head over there anyway hoping I can talk to someone. As I drive past the front of the club, I take note of two security cameras pointed at the front sidewalk and curb. If Dina got into a car, there should be camera footage. All I need is the license plate number of the car she got into.

I pull around to the rear parking lot, expecting it to be empty, but there are two cars parked near the back entrance—a sleek silver Porsche and a beat-up blue Ford Fiesta. I park beside the Ford and walk up to the back door. It's locked, so I knock loudly. Twice.

An older black man wearing dusty coveralls and a toolbelt answers the door. "We're not open yet," he says in a gruff voice. "Not 'til four. Come back then."

I pull out my leather wallet and flip it open to reveal my ID. It's only my business card for the PI business, but it looks official—impressive even. I learned from my years, first as a police officer and then as a homicide detective, that flashing an ID can accomplish a lot. "I need to speak to the owner. Is he here? Or can you tell me how to contact him?"

The door suddenly swings wide open, and a brunette woman dressed in a form-fitting cream skirt and a sleeveless white silk blouse appears beside the handyman. "I'm the owner." She eyes me from head to toe. "And you are?"

I show her my ID. "Tyler Jamison, private investigator."

Her eyes widen a fraction. "A private investigator?" She sounds more intrigued than she should. "Do come in." And then she addresses the older man beside her. "Thanks, Eddie. I'll handle Mr. Jamison myself."

As I step inside, I wonder what she thinks she's going to handle. I follow her down a hallway to an office. She closes the door behind us and leans against it, her ankles crossed. She's wearing sharp cream-colored stilettos, and her skirt is a bit on the short side, which means she's showing a lot of leg. It used to bother me that looking at an attractive woman's leg did absolutely nothing for me. Now I know why, and I no longer care.

"Vicky Moreland," she says as she pushes away from the door and walks toward me. She offers me her hand, and we shake. Her nails are long and painted a bright glossy red. Her fingers are adorned with a number of flashy rings. If those are real diamonds, she's wearing a small fortune. I'm guessing the Porche outside is hers.

When she holds my hand longer than necessary, I gently pull mine free. "Ms. Moreland—"

"It's miss ," she says, cutting me off. The corners of her mouth curve upward. "I'm single."

And I'm not. "Miss Moreland. I'm investigating a missing person case. According to the young woman's friends, she was last seen here at your club at approximately two-thirty AM this morning, when she got into the back seat of a white sedan and was driven away. I'm hoping your surveillance cameras picked up her departure. If I could look at the footage… I'm hoping to get the make, model, and license plate number of the vehicle she left in."

The woman eyes me for a long moment, apparently sizing me up. "I might be persuaded to let you see the footage, if you offer to buy me a drink first." Her voice trails off suggestively as she gestures to the door. "The bar's right this way."

"You're wasting your time, ma'am. I'm married."

She smiles. "If I don't mind, why should you?"

I'm not even going to dignify that comment. "Miss Moreland, you can either show me the footage now, or I can go file a police report and get them out here with a warrant."

"Fine!" She turns back to the door. "Follow me."

The security office is little more than a glorified closet. Along the back wall is a long table holding a number of monitors.

"May I?" I ask, gesturing to the keyboard.

She leans against the door jamb. "Help yourself."

It doesn't take me long to scroll back through the footage from early this morning. Teresa said Dina left at two-thirty, so I scroll back to minutes before that time stamp. When I see a trio—two girls and a guy—stepping out onto the front sidewalk, I recognize Teresa. I assume the male is her boyfriend, Neil. The other female must be Dina. The three of them are huddled in a group, waiting.

When a white sedan pulls up to the curb, the front passenger window goes down. Dina looks at the car, then walks over to the window and leans in for a rather lengthy conversation with the driver.

Dina nods, straightens, and then waves at her friends as she opens the rear passenger door and climbs into the vehicle. A moment later, the car pulls away from the curb. I pause the video and make note of the make, model, and license plate number. The video is black-and-white, but the resolution is good.

"Is that the girl you're looking for?" the owner asks me.

"I believe so." I back the footage up to get a good view of Dina and use my phone to snap a picture. Then I text the photo to Kimi to get confirmation of Dina's identity.

Kimi texts me back promptly:

OMG, yes, that's Dina!!

Then I send her a photo of the license plate and ask her to run a search for me. I need the owner's name and address.

"Thanks for your cooperation," I tell the woman as I rise from my seat. "How long do you keep video footage?"

"Two weeks," she says.

"Good. I might need to see it again."

By the time I'm back in my car, Kimi texts me with the vehicle owner's name and address.

Terry Kramer 120 College Center Dr. apt 2C Roger's Park

That's not far. I head straight there, climb the steps to the second floor, and knock on the door of unit 2C.

When no one answers, I knock again, this time louder. I hear footsteps coming from within the apartment, and eventually, the door opens, but only slightly. The chain lock is still engaged.

A young man with greasy, long brown hair peers at me through the gap in the door. "Yes?"

"Are you Terry Kramer?"

He frowns. "Who's asking?"

I flash my ID. "Tyler Jamison, private investigator. I'm looking for Dina Johnson. Is she here?"

His eyes widen at the mention of Dina's name, and he ducks out of sight and slams the door in my face.

Fuck.

Nothing like broadcasting your guilt.

I pound on the door. "Open up, Mr. Kramer, or I'll have the cops out here before you can draw your next breath."