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22 Hours Missing
Ryan
The San Diego skyline graces the horizon, maybe twenty miles away. Two hangars with tile roofs border one side of our destination. A Sullivan Arms branded sign angled skyward atop a brick platform clarifies ownership for those flying over. There is a small runway stretching along the field and three helipads. Per the instructions Sullivan’s assistant emailed, I land in the helipad numbered three.
This is not Sullivan’s house, as I had assumed. The land sits on the top of a raised cliff overlooking the ocean. His view is spectacular. This property may be a couple of miles from the actual ocean, but with a view like this, it is prime property.
A man in sunglasses watches us land with his arms crossed as he leans against a black Range Rover. His colorful Hawaiian-print shirt stands out from high above. It isn’t until the helicopter door opens that the man pushes off his perch and tosses the lollipop stick he’d been chewing onto the ground.
“Welcome. I’m Wayne. Jack asked me to give you guys a lift back to his house.”
“I thought we were landing at his house.”
“San Diego city regulations.” He clucks his tongue. “No go. We’re about twenty minutes away. With traffic, it’ll be more like forty minutes. Jack would’ve been here to get you himself, but he’s still at the station. Mighty nice of you two to fly down.”
“The police station?” Wayne nods in the affirmative. “Are the local police working the case now?”
“I don’t think so. Unfortunately, he’s probably as much of a suspect in their eyes as he is a father looking for his daughter. I told him to get a lawyer, but he’s bullheaded.”
Wayne reaches for the bags, and I give a quick shake of my head. “I’ve got it.”
Alex mimics me. Growing up, they taught me to carry a woman’s bag. But I also attended the Naval Academy and spent years in the Navy. I learned some women don’t want a man to carry her bags. While I am okay with that, Wayne isn’t. He chases her down and insists on carrying her bag. In her boots, the top of his head reaches her chin.
“Thanks for driving us,” Alex says from the back seat as we pull away.
The light reflects off Wayne’s Rolex watch. It’s similar to the one Jack wore, if not the exact gold model. He’s got curly dark hair, but it’s short. I’m not sure if it’s his hair or his Hawaiian shirt, but he reminds me ofMagnum PIwithout the mustache. I haven’t thought of that show in ages, but Wayne has a similar laid-back vibe.
“Not a problem,” Wayne responds. “I hope you find her. She’s a good kid. Like family.”
I can’t see his eyes, thanks to the Maui Jims, but with one hand on the wheel and an arm resting on the door, Wayne doesn’t appear overly worried about Sophia. Jimmy Buffett plays through the radio, and Wayne taps his left foot to the beat. He’s wearing khaki shorts and expensive leather loafers, and he’s sporting a dad bod. But I’d guess he’s not too much older than me, maybe mid- to late forties.
“Did you know Sophia well?” Dr. Rolfe asks.
“I don’t think you’d say well. I mean, I’ve known Jack for a long damn time. Sullivan Arms was my first job out of college. Known Sophia her whole life. But, like, the way you know kids. Say hello. Things like, ‘Dang, girl, you’re getting tall.’ I’d tell Jack he was gonna be in trouble when the boys came knocking. She’d laugh. Then she’d disappear. That’s the way I knew her.”
“Got it.” Through the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of Dr. Rolfe’s smile. She finds Wayne entertaining. With him, she’s relaxed. “Did Jack ever mention he’d had problems with her?”
Wayne angles the rearview to get a better look at Alex.
“Not at all. She’s a straight-A student. Never been in trouble. Goes to a fantastic, exclusive school. She’s got it all.”
I don’t have to see Alex to know she doesn’t interpret his response as good news. It leaves us with two avenues. If he’s correct, then she was abducted, because fifteen-year-olds don’t run away from great homes.
But by Wayne’s own admittance, he only knows her in passing. He’s not a highly reliable source.
“What about you two? What’s your story?” Wayne’s still got one arm draped over the wheel, and he’s slouched back in the seat. I get the sense he doesn’t care about our answer; he’s just filling the silence.
“Jack and I were in the Naval Academy together.”
“You know, I always forget he pulled that stint.” He looks in the rearview. “And you?”
“Family friend.”
“I saw you at the funeral.” Wayne’s focus centers on the back seat, and red brake lights shine. I slam my palm against the dashboard.
“Wayne.” He glances forward.
“Damn slower drivers.” He peels out one lane over, and we zoom past the braking sedan.
