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starched white shirt, crisp gray suit, and high-dollar haircut. Everything about him said,
Check out my authority—it’s awesome
.
    He explained how the police had already scoured the nature park with their dogs, but now they wanted to cover more ground in case they’d missed something. According to him,Ashton was last seen by another visitor to the area about four p.m. Wednesday as she put some of her things into the trunk of her car. She was wearing a blue running outfit with blue running shoes and probably a blue hair clip, one of her usual exercise getups. Her jewelry included a gold necklace and two gold rings. It was pretty clear to me that finding any of this stuff would mean that whatever happened to Ashton wasn’t going to be good.
    Before explaining the search routine, Captain Lewis asked Ashton’s dad to say a few words, I guess to pump us up for our mission. Eliot Browning looked to be in his early fifties—a square cowboy-hero chin, the kind of complexion that looked like he probably paid someone else to take care of it for him, and salt-and-pepper hair that swooped back behind his ears, more like what you’d expect from a movie director than a banker. And, of course, he had the expensive, perfect-fit suit, and I’m sure a pair of thousand-dollar shoes, though I couldn’t see them from where I was. Talk about mojo—this guy was probably born with it.
    He started in about how all of us had daughters or sons or brothers or sisters and asked us to imagine how we’d feel if one of them disappeared. In my opinion, this was a pretty good way of engaging the crowd, including those who’d be watching on TV. Me, I didn’t have any siblings, but Audrey had an older sister who’d moved away to college this year, and I missed her every once in a while.
    Anyway, Mr. Browning went on to talk about how great Ashton was, how she excelled at tennis, won awards for her civic involvement, and how her smile could set a whole room aglow. You had to hand it to him—he was a good public speaker and never let his emotions get the better of him.
    Toward the end, he waved for his wife and son to stepforward. Julia Browning was probably about ten years younger than her husband. She was the kind of woman you would rate as attractive but you’d never call hot—too stiff and formal, kind of like she was trying to hold a fart in all the time. But there was a hollow look about her face, especially in her eyes, that let you know she wasn’t taking the disappearance as calmly as her husband.
    The son they called Tres—pronounced “Trace”—but his real name was Eliot Browning III. He was my age, really pale and skinny, and had a bit of a turtle face. There wasn’t anything majestic about him. Sure, his forest-green shirt and dark brown trousers had the big-money sheen going, but if you put him in a hoodie and old jeans, he’d look more like a prime target for bullies in my high school cafeteria than a big-shot banker’s son.
    He and his mom didn’t say anything. They were just there for emotional impact. Mr. Browning went on about how empty the house had been the last few days and how he wouldn’t rest until his daughter was back to fill it with her smiles and laughter. Then he pulled out the big guns.
    “That is why,” he said, stepping back to loop his arms awkwardly around the shoulders of his wife on one side and son on the other, “the Browning family has decided to offer a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the safe return of Ashton.”
    You better believe that sent a murmur through the crowd. Me, I was thinking about all the mojo a hundred thousand bucks could buy. Plus, the ’69 Mustang was back in the picture.
    “So, please,” he added, “as you set off on this search today, keep Ashton in your hearts”—I wanted to add
and wallets—
“and don’t pass over any detail. You never know. It could be the key to finding my daughter.”
    All in all, Mr. Browning was impressive,