Chapter Three

Dane stretched lazily. He allowed his alarm a few extra moments before turning it off. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna have to go,” he shook the petite blonde lying next to him. “I have to work today," he explained. He continued moving his hand on her back, "So, you’re gonna have to go," he unapologetically announced. “There’s coffee in the kitchen, if you'd like some," he offered. "I don't keep tea, and I don't cook," he headed off any questions she might ask about breakfast together. "I’ll call a cab if you need one," he absently offered over his shoulder; hurrying her along. Impatiently, he fell into his normal morning routine, and began doing push-ups on the floor.

“I’ve got a Lyft account,” the woman drowsily answered. “Do I have time to shower, or am I stuck with the walk-of-shame?” Sarcastic irritation dripped from the question. No answer. The woman waited in an uncomfortable silence, “I get it,” she spoke half to herself, several moments later. “You don’t leave strange women in your place. I don't blame you... It's a nice place,” she nervously babbled as she glanced at her surroundings under the early morning light.

Dane glanced back at the woman lying on his California King. She was passable. She wasn’t beautiful; but she wasn’t unattractive either. She was petite, but fit; muscular even. He hadn’t realized she was a natural blonde until this morning. A momentary sense of self awareness swept a lonely embarrassment through him; which passed as quickly as it came. This woman was Dane’s middle of the week pick-me-up. 

Every Wednesday, Dane found himself seated in front of Frank, at the Blind Pig on 3rd Street; discussing the available women in the bar that night. Every Wednesday, just like clockwork, two hours in, he had chosen his night’s companion and went to work getting her attention. Every Wednesday, without fail, he started by sending a drink. Moments later, he would excuse himself to the Men’s, making sure he passed his choice along the way. Steps before reaching her table, he would “accidentally” drop his wallet; ensuring she noticed the badge. The dropped badge was always a winner. He didn't know why, but women loved a man with a badge. An hour later they’d be in his living room deciding whether to move to the bedroom or not. Every Wednesday, without fail, Dane followed the same routine. This was no exception.

By the time Dane had finished exercising, he heard his guest closing the front door behind her. Satisfied in a day well started, he climbed into the shower. As the hot water cascaded down his spine, Dane thought about work. He was on to something. He could feel it. He had eleven kidnap victims across the United States. Each victim was taken under unique circumstances. No two victims connected anywhere. Each woman was a different age. Each woman was shaped differently. Each woman was a different nationality. Each woman came from a different state. Nothing pointed to these women being taken by the same offender. Yet, Dane KNEW that they had been. He couldn’t explain why, but his gut was telling him it was the same person, or group of people, taking these women. Today he would look closer into each case. Today he would find the missing piece. He had to. No one else believed they were connected. Their cases would never be solved if he couldn't convince someone that they were indeed connected. Dane couldn't live with that kind of failure. The missing women deserved better than that. A sense of shame swept through him, at the thought of failing.

Dane dressed in a softly woolen; charcoal colored; Indochino; men’s, double breasted suit. He added an overly starched, perfectly tailored, long sleeved white shirt; a pair of silver Eagle cuff links; and a pair of black, Beckett Simonon, Balmoral Boots. He rubbed a dab of Beardbrand styling balm between his palms and ran his hands through his meticulously styled; neck groomed, jet black hair; before combing it into place. He began reciting the women’s names to himself in the bathroom mirror.

“Melinda Cortez; 30 years old; Red Bank Tennessee; Tuesday, March 16, 1999 – unknown time. Gina Moore; 24 years old; Scituate, Rhode Island; Tuesday, June 19, 2001- approximately 1300 hours. Allicia Doxon; 27 years old; Okmugee, Oklahoma; Thursday, March 21,2002 – approximately 0230 hours. Delilah Luettgen, 32 years old; Dingman, Pennsylvania; Thursday, August 22, 2002 – unknown time. Mary Hinsen; 25 years old; Ravenna, Ohio; Tuesday, May 11, 2004 – some time after midnight. Monica Sandusky; 35 years old, Moss Bluff, Louisiana; Thursday, August 19, 2004 – unknown time. Deborah Feyrer,” he continued; as he stared deeper at his own reflection in the mirror, “26 years old; Mamakating, New York; Thursday, January 13, 2005 – unknown time, daylight hours. Grace Miller; 29 years old; Chalco, Nebraska: Thursday, July 14, 2005 – approximately 1700 hours. Irene Barlowe; 23 years old; Picayune, Mississippi; Tuesday, February 21, 2006 – approximately 0500 hours. Michelle Rawles; 31 years old; Cherry Creek, Colorado; Thursday, November 16, 2006 – unknown time. Bethany Abbott, 22 years old; Cottage Grove, Oregon; taken between Tuesday, March 18 and Tuesday March 25 2007 – possibly missing for a week before she was noticed gone,” 

Dane sighed dourly. He HATED self doubt. It was a weakness he never afforded himself. Yet, he had a nagging sense about this case. It was so much bigger than one cold file lying on his desk. This was eleven families; eleven sets of parents; eleven sets of siblings; six sets of children. How could he ever face any of them and say, "no new information"...especially when he believed otherwise? “These women ARE connected… somehow,” He reassured himself. "I WILL find that link!" He looked deep into his own chocolate brown eyes; mustering the confidence to stand by his conviction. Yet, he was worried by the fact he couldn’t convince his command.. “I’m the only one who believes it. I've GOT to prove this," he demanded of himself. "I have to make them understand."

Dane drove to work distracted. He knew there was no tangible evidence linking his missing women. Yet, his instincts told him every single case was connected to something. He wasn’t sure if it was a trafficking ring; a mule stable; some kind of cult; or simply a monster in hiding. But, Dane was positive each of his missing women were connected...if only by the events which lead to their disappearances. A horn honked behind him. He suddenly realized he had been sitting at a green light; his mind adrift; searching for the one clue which connected each of his Janes. He gathered himself, took a frustrated breath, and pointed his car towards Starbucks. 

Dane robotically ordered his morning Quad Grande - half fat - Extra Hot - Caramel - Macchiato - upside down, still lost in thought. Today he would have a chance; one single opportunity to explain why these women should be considered one case; why a task force was needed. How could he explain it to the A.D.D if he couldn’t verbalize it to himself? He couldn’t just say he KNEW...and it WAS a necessary expenditure. He would have to give them something concrete. He only needed one thread, but damned if he'd been able to find it. He'd have this morning; and ONLY this morning to find it. Was that possible? 

Dane had been putting this case together for weeks. Day after day, he had meticulously gone over each document; each timeline; each tiny fragment of evidence. The golden unicorn, the one fact connecting each woman, and her story, to the next victim, simply escaped him. He subconsciously made a fist in frustration; digging his fingers into his own flesh. This day, this single day, would make or break his case. Nervous anxiety gripped him. He began going over each file in his mind's eye; as he pulled his silver 2010 Chevy Traverse into the parking structure.