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“Yep. 6:07 p.m. Here it is. I bookmarked it.” Simon inputs the time and clicks a ‘search’ button.
He asks to see Gemma’s picture again, which I oblige. Then, we stand there watching when the person of interest comes into frame. Over the course of hundreds of pictures that jump a second or two forward, the man who talked Gemma into leaving with him meets with two other guys. Not being able to hear anything—the video has no sound—it looks like he’s some manner of salesman making a presentation to representatives from a small company. I say small because of my assumption a large corporation would’ve invited a sales rep to their offices rather than meeting in a place like this.
Hmm. This guy could be a con artist, too. He looks fairly normal and unassuming… but then again, so did Ted Bundy.
Mystery guy has been at the table with the two suits for about six minutes before Simon spots Gemma walking in. She’s part of a group of nine, four guys, five women. And ouch. Her body language makes me feel so bad for her. She looks like the kid forced to participate in a school talent show despite severe stage fright. Heather practically drags the woman along as another hostess (not Kari) escorts them to a table in the restaurant area. The change in Gemma—as she realizes they haven’t ‘gone to a bar’ and it’s only a restaurant is rapid and obvious. She definitely relaxes.
Nothing particularly exciting happens in the fast forward view of twenty-three video feeds. A little more than an hour of recorded time goes by in sixteen minutes. The mystery man concludes his business with the two guys in suits, as well as their meal. Both reps go straight for the exit while mystery guy hits the bar. Can’t really make out what he gets, but based on the shape of the glass and the color of the liquid in it, I’m assuming it’s Guinness or something similar.
Around that time, Gemma and Heather make their way across the place to the bar. Perhaps their waiter wasn’t fast enough for the drinks, or maybe they figured it would be easier to manage the bill paying separately for the liquor. Whatever the reason for their trip, they go to the bar and talk to a tall, black-haired woman working as the bartender.
Mystery guy glances over at them, seeming casual, the way any normal person might glance at other humans walking close by. He starts to look away, but doesn’t quite manage to pull his eyes off the women. This guy stares at Gemma and Heather while they wait for the bartender to fill their drink order.
The cameras aren’t awesome, but they’re not crap. Looks like he’s either mesmerized or going into a psychotic trance. Easy, Sam... don’t project. This is so annoying. My brain wants to believe I’m hunting a serial killer. I can’t tell if the mental argument going on in my head right now is coming from legitimate investigative skepticism or if it’s just my sentimental side hoping beyond statistical probability for a happy ending here.
Three minutes later, the guy gets up and approaches Gemma. They appear to have a brief conversation before the drinks come up and Heather pulls her away to help carry trays. Mystery guy watches them go, facing them until they pass through the archway into the restaurant side. Once there’s a wall blocking his view, he returns to his seat at the bar.
I note where he sits.
Gemma stays at her table for another twenty minutes or so until the office party appears to be over. While the majority of the Disney employees get up to leave, Gemma bee-lines for the bar, where mystery guy is still waiting. Like a scene straight out of an overly predictable low-budget crime drama, she hugs her best friend and then leaves the place with the dude she only just met.
Simon points at an exterior camera shot. Gemma and the man go to a dark green Jeep Cherokee, get in, and drive off. Without me even asking, Simon zooms in enough to get a nice, clear view of the license plate. At least they’re local. By that, I mean California plates. If they’d been out-of-state, I’d have probably convinced myself fully that this guy’s a sociopath.
“Is there any way I can get some copies of these pictures? A couple of the guy and the truck?” Granted, I have a pic of the guy, but the surveillance video has a nice full body shot.
Simon nods. “Yeah. I can do that. Just give me an email address to send ’em to.”
I hand him one of my business cards. “Thank you. You’re amazingly helpful.”
“Ehh, if it was my daughter, I’d want someone in my position to do the same. Hope you find her.”
I’m sure I will find her… eventually. There are powers at my disposal mortal authorities can’t even imagine. The question is: will Gemma still be alive by the time I catch up to her? Hmm. License plate. That’s huge. The cops already have it and still haven’t found her. This could be why Sherbet sent the brother my way. Detectives hate being stumped even more than they hate donut jokes. Cases where it looks like people just vanished into thin air aren’t necessarily paranormal, after all. However, I don’t blame Sherbet for wanting to cheat. And by cheat, I mean involving a psychic vampire who operates under an entirely different set of rules.
And yeah, this is the Anaheim P.D.’s case. Not Sherbet’s. Likely he has a friend over here and heard about the case. Or they approached him, knowing he’s had a knack for getting to the bottom of strange cases. Of course, I just so happen to be his ‘knack’.
Anyway, if I can find out who this guy is, and find a place where he stayed—and objects he touched—like the bar outside—maybe I can get a psychic hit on what makes him tick that could lead me to Gemma’s shallow grave.
Argh. Dammit, Sam. Try to be at least a little hopeful.
“All sent. Let me know if you need anything else.” Simon hands me back my card, having written his personal cell phone number on the back.
I know this because he also wrote ‘personal cell’ under the digits. He’s not giving off sleazy vibes, so this isn’t him trying to get a date out of this. Guy really does want to help as much as possible to find someone’s missing daughter.
“I will. Thank you. I need to follow up on this info.” I gesture at the close-up of the Jeep showing the plate.
Simon logs out of the security terminal, stands, and walks with me back out to the bar area. “Let me know if you need to speak to Lindsey. She was working the bar that night.”
“Did the police interview her already?” I ask.
“Yeah. I don’t think she heard much out of the ordinary.” Simon rubs a hand down his stomach. “Lots of the same stuff she hears every night.”
“All right. Maybe the cops will be frustrated enough to let me look at their notes.” I chuckle. Actually, I’m pretty sure they gave Sherbet access to their files. And yeah, I’m still a paid consultant to the Fullerton PD, so Sherbet can legally give me access to the file. Gone are the days when he would exit his office to make a photocopy and ‘accidentally’ leave a file open for me to peruse.
“Here’s hoping.” Simon salutes me with two fingers. “Good luck. I got stuff to do here.”
“Thanks again.”
He waves, then walks away.
