“That’s good to know.” Mick’s words rode on puffs of air. “But Trace bore left a minute ago and we’re on Lakeshore Road.”
Vince sagged against the counter. “Don’t tell me he’s headed down the pavement.”
“Yup,” Mick huffed. “’Fraid so.”
“Roger.” Vince couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice. “Keep me informed.”
He adjusted his weight against the counter, vaguely listening as Frank talked to one of Edna San’s children. Vince could picture Trace tugging Lester down Lakeshore, Mick throwing glances side to side as he hurried to keep up. If their search ended as Vince suspected, they’d keep to the road for two to three miles, maybe more, then Trace would lose the scent. Which would only mean one thing. Edna had been taken to a vehicle on that road and driven away. A bloodhound’s incredible nose could track a scent as it flowed through air vents in a car or truck, but not forever. Maybe five miles at most, given the number of hours that had passed.
Frank hung up the phone and looked to him with a slight shrug. “If this all checks out, their whereabouts are accounted for.” He shuffled through his notes. “I talked to Grant Wyman at his home in Hillsborough, California. He was in his office at his law firm yesterday and at a dinner party last night in San Francisco with his wife until nearly eleven o’clock. Ms. San’s daughter, Arela Clifford, was also home — in San Diego. She’s an interior decorator, recently divorced. Yesterday she met with two clients in their homes. Last night she attended a play with a female friend. She returned to her house around eleven thirty.”
“Any reason they can think of that their mother might be missing? Thoughts about who might do something?”
Frank shook his head. “Nothing concrete. They both admitted their mother ‘had her enemies.’ But they said it was old stuff. Like jealousies from other actresses in her day, things like that. Neither of them has seen their mother since she moved here.” He pulled down one side of his mouth. “Apparently, no loving holiday get-togethers for this family.”
At the word holiday , thoughts of Tim came screaming back. Vince took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s see if the SAR team comes up with anything.”
Within the hour they heard the news. Trace had followed the scent nearly three miles down Lakeshore Road, then lost it. And the chopper had found nothing.
Frank prepared to head back to the station to put out a description and photo of Edna San to the local media. People would be encouraged to call with any tips, anonymous or otherwise. But Kanner Lake being the small community it was, Vince knew word was already blowing through the streets. Calls would start flowing into the station long before the story hit the Spokane evening news or tomorrow’s newspapers.
Vince needed to return to the station and set up his incident command. He would list on the board what had been done so far, what information had been uncovered, who would be in charge of what next. They had to enlarge the search, call in a cadaver dog and as many volunteers as they could find. A lot of forest still required thorough searching. If someone had abducted Edna San and killed her, the body might be lying in the woods adjacent to Lakeshore Road. She also could have been dumped in the lake, but as yet they had no clear indication of where to search the water. And they needed to call the techs. Edna San’s property was about to become a crime scene, complete with yellow tape and a policeman guarding its entrance.
“Frank.” Vince stopped the kid before he slid into his vehicle.“Call in Al and Roger. Afraid their day off just went out the window. You three and Jim can start lining up the searchers and securing this crime scene. Jim’s senior, so he’ll be in charge. Get the techs over here as fast as you can. Before this town gets too crazy and every pair of eyes is watching me, I want to follow our one lead.”
“Okay.”
The young officer had one hand on his open door, the other at his hip. Kid looked a combination of somberness and anticipation. It was his first big case. Possibly a homicide. Vince couldn’t blame him for his humming energy.
Frank slid into his car and took off up the driveway.
As Vince watched him drive away, the memory of Tim and the broken-winged osprey burned anew.
Vince turned back toward the house. For a few minutes he reassured Francesca that they were doing all they could to find Edna San. What he didn’t tell her was that they’d go over every bit of her interview, looking for any inconsistency that might pop up.
But first the most pressing task at hand.
He’d stop by the station, check in with his men. And pick up the tiny tape recorder that could be concealed on his body. In Idaho it was legal to record a conversation clandestinely, as long as one person involved in the conversation knew about the taping. That person would be him.
As he’d done with Francesca, Vince would watch Paige Williams closely for physical clues while she answered questions.
He’d ask closed-end questions, requiring a mere yes or no answer. Often when a person lied, he or she would elaborate when it wasn’t necessary. Slowly he would lead to more pointed questions. But he’d keep it friendly, the atmosphere easy. He’d take her somewhere quiet, where she’d feel comfortable. Buy her a can of soda.
Vince Edwards might be a small-town cop, but he’d worked hard during his twenty-four-year career to keep on top of his game. He’d spent plenty of his own money, time, and energy on continuing classes, held as far away as Vegas. Courses on forensics, crime scene investigation, the art of interrogation, reading body language, even recognizing clues of suicidal behavior.
If Paige Williams was lying, he’d know it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Black Mamba slipped down to the Kanner Lake city beach.
Ensconced upon the warm sand, lifting his face to the rays of the sun, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of summer. Children splashing, teenagers chattering. The call of birds and the sudden rush of breezes off the water.
Creation was such a beautiful thing.
He was part of that nature, the methodical cunning of a reptile in their midst, plotting, planning, gauging his next move. It would not be long in coming. He knew the pay phone he would use — a little way south in the town of Spirit Lake.
Something rubbery hit his right arm. Mamba opened his eyes, looked down. A ball. He glanced around the beach, his gaze snagging on a little girl, maybe four years old. She stood staring at him, one sandy finger in her mouth, blonde hair wet and matted, eyes wide with innocence. Pretty little thing, waiting for him to toss her ball back.
“Stacy, say sorry to the man.” A heavyset woman in a yellow swimsuit frowned from the girl to him.
His lips widened into a slow smile. “No problem.” He picked up the ball, threw it gently to the girl. “I love children.”
When he reluctantly left the beach forty minutes later, he made sure to pass by the playing child and give her a wink.
TWENTY-NINE
Click. The gate to Edna San’s estate began to open.
Leslie’s head jerked up. Who was coming out now? Camera around her neck, she clutched her steno pad and pen, frowning at the vehicle.
Chief Edwards.
Her heart picked up speed. The immensity of her incredible opportunity gripped her by the throat. A major breaking story — and she was still the only reporter around.
This moment could be her one chance.
She’d known Vince Edwards since she was a little girl, attending school in the same class as Tim. She and Tim had climbed trees together as kids, grown apart during their awkward preadolescent years, then found one another as renewed friends in high school. Leslie had cried buckets at Tim’s funeral. And her heart still bent every time she saw Chief Edwards. The grief was all over his face, drawing down the corners of his mouth, flattening his features.
The car stopped, engine chugging, waiting for the gate to swing wide.
Even as her muscles gathered, ready to spring, a split second of self-doubt flushed through Leslie’s veins. These days, Chief
Edwards seemed to view her with a mixture of bittersweetness and impatience. No doubt she reminded him of his son now lost, and that in itself could blend fondness and pain. But her linear focus on making it big as a reporter, with her constant probing of Kanner Lake law enforcement, obviously served as a thorn in his heel.
Les, go!
She jumped into the middle of the driveway, blocking his path.
He caught sight of her just as the gate clanked to a halt. His chin dropped in a sort of beleaguered weariness. Then he leaned over, sticking his head out the open window. “Leslie Brymes, get out of my way!”
“Just a few questions, Chief!” She flung the words with utter confidence, as Miss National Reporter covering, oh, just the hundredth crime in her illustrious career. With an assume-the-sale smile, she trotted across the gate’s inviting entrance to the driver’s side of the car.
Chief Edwards looked up at her and sighed. He remained leaning toward the door, right arm draped over the steering wheel. “What are you bothering me for, Leslie? Frank came out of here not two minutes ago.”
A pout pulled at Leslie’s lips. She caught it soon enough to fight it back. “He drove on by, not giving me the time of day. Imagine that. If I’m reading this situation correctly, very soon now you’ll need the media. You’ll be running to us to publish a picture, get the word out about your missing person.”
The chief shrugged. “Last I heard, the Times only publishes once a week. You know good and well if we need someone today, it’s the television folks, not you.”
“So you do need dissemination!” Leslie bent toward him, trying not to out and out pant. “Please, Chief Edwards, give me a leg up, just this once. You know the media’s going to come running soon — all of them. Just give me a scoop about what’s going on.”
As the words poured out, fresh guilt rose within her. Her pleading for special treatment was founded upon her friend ship with his dead son, and they both knew it. At that moment she wouldn’t have blamed him for pushing her off his car and driving away.
The chief lowered his head, massaged just above his nose with one finger. The breath he pulled in was long and slow. “All right, Leslie. I’ll answer a few questions.”
She stared at him openmouthed, then caught herself. “Okay, thanks.” Her mind blanked. “Um, did the SAR team or the chopper or anybody find Edna San?”
“No.”
“Did the dog pick up her scent?”
“Yes.”
She waited. He said no more. “Where did it lead?”
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “That I won’t say.”
She jotted a note. “The coroner’s assistant told me he was taking away Edna San’s guard dog. What happened to it?”
He looked at her straight on. Leslie could hear the gears of ambivalence grinding in his head. She willed herself to stare back without flinching.
“It was shot in the head.”
Her eyes widened. “A guard dog, shot? So you must think there’s been foul play?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Leslie scribbled furiously. She couldn’t let this stop, not now.
Her questions came faster, popping. “When was Ms. San last seen?”
“Around nine o’clock last night. By her assistant, Francesca Galvin.”
“Any forced entry, anything stolen?”
“That I won’t say at this time.”
“Any blood, sign of a struggle?”
“No answer to that one either.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“Not yet. We’re looking into some more information.”
“What information?”
“No deal, Leslie.”
She raised her gaze to his face. The man who was Tim’s dad, Kanner Lake policeman long before he became chief, eyed her with a strained expression. Suddenly she saw herself as he did — not as Leslie Brymes, fledgling reporter, but as Leslie Brymes, little girl and playmate of Tim, now struggling her way through adulthood while his own son’s life had been unmercifully cut short. She flinched, feeling a bloom on her cheeks. She would have pushed away from the car then, perhaps even apologized for bothering the man. But the force of her dreams and the chance at hand swept aside her remorse.
“Did Ms. San’s assistant hear anything?”
Something brushed across Chief Edwards’s face. Recognition of who she’d grown to become, perhaps? Of her dogged determination to make something of this life she’d been afforded?
“No, she heard nothing.”
“What’s next in the investigation? Further searching?”
“Yes.”
“Searching for a body? With cadaver dogs?”
He inclined his head. “Perhaps.”
“You need volunteers?”
“Yes.”
Leslie continued scribbling. Chief Edwards cleared his throat.“And now, Ms. Brymes, I really must be going.”
Despite the flat tone in his voice, Leslie pushed on. She’d deal with the regret later. “Chief,” — her words softened — “give me one more thing you can part with. Just one. Some detail you won’t be releasing to everyone else.” She pleaded with her eyes.
He hesitated, indecision tightening his features. Then, unexpectedly, gave a small tired smile. “Leslie Brymes.” He shook his head. Looked at her askance. “Here’s your detail, all right? Francesca Galvin drew a bath for Edna San before retiring to her own house on the property for the night. I don’t think Ms. San ever stepped into the water.”
He firmed his mouth, nodded once, as if to say, There you are. Then motioned her away from the vehicle.
“Thank you, Chief, thank you so much!” The words spouted from her lips. “If I can do anything to help, please let me know.”
Yeah, right, Leslie.
He nodded again solemnly.
Leslie wanted to say more, something about Tim, something about how bad she still felt, and how she knew tomorrow was the anniversary of his death. But the words caught in her throat. She stepped back from the car.
Chief Edwards turned back toward the steering wheel. Ace reporter Leslie Brymes raised her camera for some quick shots as he drove away.
THIRTY
From the Simple Pleasures counter, Paige anxiously watched Main Street through the store’s front window.
Dragging Edna San’s body into the lake.
No customers were in the store at the moment, and for that Paige was grateful. How much longer could she force the smiles, hide her trembling limbs? Moment by moment Sarah’s voice played through her head like a stuck record. A policeman called and asked your name. A policeman called —
“Paige, you look like you’re in dreamland.” Sarah bustled from the back room carrying three oil lamp candles to replace those that had sold. She put them on the table, chubby hands fussing with their placement until she was satisfied, then turned toward the counter. “How about being a dear and getting me a coffee from across the street?” She gave Paige one of her blithe, nothing’s-wrong-with-the-world smiles. “You could use a bit of sun, and your lunch break’s still forty-five minutes away.”
Dreamland. I wish. “Okay. Sure.”
Sarah rested a palm against the countertop, her other hand fiddling with the gray curls at her forehead. “You remember what I like, right?”
“Um. A biggie double latte.”
Java Joint had this thing about drink sizes. “You get what you ask for,” was the way Bailey Truitt had explained it the first time Paige ordered. Sizes came in small, middler, and biggie. “None of this ‘tall’ stuff meaning the smallest drink.” Bailey had tossed a look heavenward. “What kind of logic is that?”
Sarah grinned at Paige. “You got it.” She moved behind the counter, pulled her wallet from her purse, and handed Paige four dollars. “Leave the extra money for Bailey.”
A minute later Paige stood on the curb in the hot sun, waiting for a chance to jaywalk across the street. As she let cars pass, she glanced right and left. S
he saw couples walking hand in hand, friends talking, a mother and her small son. No one who looked the slightest bit like a suspect. Still, to Paige suspicions haunted every building, every square foot of the thriving and quaint downtown. The man who’d killed Edna San — if it indeed was a man — could be lurking in any shop, watching her through the window. Huddled blocks away, binoculars in his hand. Or what if the police were observing her right now from some secret perch? Noting her every facial expression, her body language? Would they see her guilt, her jumpiness at the slightest unexpected sound? What if —
Paige, no cars.
She crossed the street.
Java Joint’s three tables on the sidewalk were occupied with customers. Some of them men. She hurried by, heart skimming, feeling the eyes of one middle-aged man upon her.
Was it him?
Inside the café, about a third of the tables were taken — and all four stools at the counter.
Is he here?
At the counter sat three men and one woman dressed in a business suit, talking animatedly in low tones. All locals, Paige knew that much. She didn’t relish standing close to them as she ordered. Heading for the end of the counter, she made a beeline for the one person she felt inclined to trust — Bailey Truitt. The sweet and ever-smiling woman, perhaps in her midfifties, had been very friendly the three or four times Paige had ventured inside the café.
Bailey was busy wiping down the counter beyond her espresso machine. Paige waited to be noticed, tapping a thumb against the edge of the counter. She almost felt rather than heard the whispers to her right die away. Staring at Bailey’s back, she sensed four pairs of eyes upon her.
Three men. Her ankles shook.
The man next to her looked her up and down and sniffed. She glanced at him. He was old. Too old? Had to be in his seventies.
Milky blue eyes and a wizened, narrow face.
“Hey, Bailey.” He thumped the counter with gnarled knuckles. “You got a customer.”
Bailey turned, a smile on her lips. Paige thought her a pretty woman. Thick brown hair with red highlights, cut above her shoulders and tucked behind her ears. Round chestnut-colored eyes. She wore small gold hoop earrings and a little gold cross necklace. “Hi there, Paige.” Her lips pulled wider.
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