by Gregg Olsen
When we get up to leave, I turn on the stopwatch feature on my phone. The time line is off, and I know it. I can reason away that it took extra time for Luke to get Ally into her car seat, but that can’t account for all the time it took to get from McDonald’s to WinCo. It might take that long for a grandmother unfamiliar with the buckles and snaps on a car seat to maneuver a squirming kid into place, but Luke was a practiced father. He’d been taking Ally to day care since she was a month old.
“We’re doing a little test,” I tell Emma as we pull out of the parking lot into traffic.
“What kind of test?”
“I’m just wondering how long it takes to get somewhere.”
“Where?”
“From here to the grocery store.”
Emma doesn’t say anything. She knows what I’m doing. She’s a good listener—plus Carrie Anne has the TV on all day long. Though they’ve moved on, the Seattle news media was all over the story in the beginning, showing the WinCo where Luke worked over and over. The PR department at the grocery chain must have hated that kind of publicity in the worst way.
I know that Luke and Ally arrived at McDonald’s at 8:39 a.m. Sixteen minutes after that, at 8:55, Luke and Ally left the fast-food restaurant for WinCo. He arrived and parked there, in an isolated area, at 9:09.
I turn over my phone. I don’t want to see how long it takes until I get to the back parking lot. I want to drive like everything is normal. If I miss a light, that’s fine. Traffic is lighter this time of morning anyway. The case is circumstantial. That means every single stone needs to be turned.
Every rock from which Luke crawled out from under, I think.
Emma talks about school and how she’s heard from Carrie Anne, of course, that her teacher is nice.
“She’s really good at art,” she says. “I think I’ll like her.”
“I like art,” I say.
Emma told me earlier in the summer that she wanted to be an artist. Last year she wanted to work for a home shopping channel (thanks, Carrie Anne!). Before that, in what I hope was not a suck-up move, she suggested that she wanted to be a police officer.
“Like you,” she told me.
When we arrive at WinCo, I park and turn over my phone and hit “Stop.”
It has taken us eight minutes, twenty-two seconds, and some change. The time between the surveillance cameras at McDonald’s and the one at WinCo was a few seconds over fourteen minutes.
“Everything okay?” Emma asks.
“Yes,” I say, though I know it isn’t. “I’m taking you to Carrie Anne’s now. Thanks for running this little errand with me, Emma.”
She smiles. “Thanks for the pancakes.”
“Next time I’ll order my own,” I say.
“Good idea,” she says.
As I drive to Carrie Anne’s, I think about the extra six minutes. Only one thing could account for that.
Luke stopped somewhere on the way to work.
Barely half a cup of McDonald’s coffee in my veins, and Carter and I are back in the same little departmental conference room with Angelina Marco. I tell Carter about my experiment, and his eyebrows rise, but right now it’s the Angelina show. She’s hunched over her laptop and struggling to get the world’s most out-of-date laptop projector working.
We need new equipment, I think.
“What have you got?” I ask.
Angelina barely looks up. “You’ll see,” she says, pulling a cough drop from her purse and popping it into her mouth while she fiddles with the screen input button.
Angelina has professed on several occasions that she doesn’t like people much, but I know she enjoys making things into a bit of a show. I look at Carter, and I think he’s thinking the same thing.
“There’s a bit of bad news in the mix here,” she finally says, her eyes meeting mine, then Carter’s. “Mia’s Samsung has been wiped clean. Set back to factory settings. Nothing on it.”
“But there still is something, right?” I ask. “You can never really wipe it clean, right?”
Angelina shakes her head as a printout from Luke’s phone appears on the big screen.
“Nope,” she says. “Nada. All gone. It really isn’t that hard to do. Go to the Web. People clean their phones before selling them to a third party all the time. No encryption. Just a blank slate and big start over.”
“Well, we were more interested in Luke’s phone anyway,” Carter says.
“Yes, that’s the good news,” Angelina says. “And in this particular case I’m thinking that you’re going to have all you need to get that piece of crap in prison for the rest of his life.”
“Better than the laptop?” I ask.
She gives a quick nod. “Laptop was good but, yeah, there’s some stuff here that’ll make your hair curl. Or skin crawl. One of those things. I’ve pulled out a few highlights, just to walk you through some of this. Not trying to do anyone’s job.”
Carter looks over at me. We’ve talked about Angelina’s aspirations before. She pleads innocence when it comes to wanting to climb the ladder, but she’s got enough of the grandstander in her that we concur management might be the most logical stop on her career path.
We look at the screen as she moves her cordless mouse to open files that the state crime lab pulled from the locked iPhone that belonged to Luke.
The first entry is a text exchange between Luke and a contact named Sug.
Luke: Want to get out of here. So bored.
Sug: Me too. Work sucks.
Luke: I like sucking.
Sug: Ha.
Luke: When can you get off?
Sug: I don’t know. Maybe later. Maybe never.
Luke: Don’t tease me. I want to oil you up and roll around on the floor.
Sug: Sounds good.
To close out the conversation, Luke sends one of his dick pics. It makes me cringe a little that I think I could probably identify him in a lineup with his pants down around his ankles.
I look at Angelina. I’m not sure what to say, so I spit out a few words. “Pretty dull sexting exchange, if you ask me.”
Carter gives me a gentle poke with his elbow. “Didn’t know you had any experience with that kind of thing.”
I shake my head. “I don’t. Not really. Regardless, we know he’s a creeper already.”
Angelina speaks up. “Of course he is, but what makes this one important—and of course that’s up to you guys—is the time and date of this little exchange.”
“When?” Carter asks.
Angelina moves the curser to the top of the file, where the lab techs have noted the time, date, and duration of the texting exchange. Immediately I can tell the significance Angelina is dangling over us. The realization makes me sick to my stomach.
Carter looks puzzled.
“Ally’s birthday,” I tell him. “That piece of shit was texting this garbage during his daughter’s birthday party.”
“It gets better,” Angelina says.
“There’s more?” I ask. “I might need some antacid.”
She starts on the next file.
“Wait,” I say. “Can you tell us who ‘Sug’ is?”
Angelina makes a face. “No. Prepaid phone. Sorry. Check this out. You’ll definitely need some Tums.” She takes a cylinder of the antacid from her pocket and hands them to me. I put two tablets into my mouth and wonder how something that tastes so awful could actually make anyone feel better. It’s like chewing on a stick of chalk.
“This one matches your time line,” she says. “Puts this series of texts during his visit to McDonald’s the morning Ally died.”
“I wondered what the prick was doing on his phone,” Carter says.
I don’t say a word. I can’t. Like a minty Elmer’s, the Tums have glued my mouth shut.
Luke: You look hot.
Sam: Glad you think so. I’m hot.
Luke: Want to meet by the river later?
Sam: Sure. Been too long.
Luke: Seriously.
Sa
m: What time?
Luke: Going to the movies after work. Meet up after?
Sam: Cool.
My mouth can move again. “Tell me Sam doesn’t have a burner phone too,” I say.
Angelina fiddles with her power cord.
We need new equipment in the worst possible way. In Bellevue we had everything we needed for an investigation—and then some. Aberdeen is on a shoestring. Most small towns are. Here the mantra is “Make do.” That works fine when small-time crimes are involved. Murder, not so much. In a murder case you need backup batteries for sure.
“She doesn’t,” Angelina says. “Again, not to tell you how to do your job, but you could just call the number or you could subpoena the phone company. Number’s local. This guy didn’t do much of anything other than talk about sex when he wasn’t having any.”
Angelina puts the next series of texts on the screen.
“This text was sent in the afternoon. According to your time line, around the time Luke was going to his car after lunch,” she says. “It’s also local. Nonburner. Yippee. So that’s good news.”
Luke: I miss you.
Mari: I’m still mad at you.
Luke: You can’t stay mad at me.
Mari: I can. You really piss me off.
Luke: Don’t be mad, babe. We can have some more good times.
Mari: I’m done with you.
Luke: But I’m free. Everything you wanted is going to be OK now.
Mari: Doubtful. Don’t trust you.
Luke: We can play in the backseat.
Mari: God, you are stupid. I’m not trash. I’m done with putting out in your car. You’re cheap. You treat me like a whore.
Luke: You know things are complicated, but that’s all in the past.
Mari: You led me on.
Luke: I love you. You’re so damn hot. God, I want you so bad.
Mari: Fuck you. I should never have trusted you. Don’t ever call me back.
Luke: I did everything for you.
Mari: Goodbye, Luke.
“Seems like Luke was having a pretty lousy day,” Carter says without a single trace of irony. “He’s a busy guy. I’ll give him that. Seems like he’d do better with another hobby other than sex. Maybe fishing.”
Angelina and I laugh, though nothing about this case is really amusing. It’s sad beyond belief. Our laughter is a release. A balloon popped at a party.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “He’s having about as much luck as my dad did when he fished for rock cod off the Westport dock.”
“Like I said,” Angelina says, “there’s a ream of sexts here between Luke and a bunch of women. The ones I’ve previewed here are pertinent to your time line. Others might be relevant to you in ways that I can’t easily see. It’s all here.”
She hands me a thumb drive, gathers up her things, and leaves. Carter and I are alone.
“I can barely get a date,” Carter says. “Okay, I can’t get a date at all. This doofus has a dozen women who want to have sex with him. What’s up with that?”
“You might be aiming too high,” I say.
“I guess,” Carter says. “That’s always been my problem. Damn, my high standards.”
I give him an awkward smile. “It’s all right. We all have our faults.”
The room suddenly feels a little awkward. I know that feeling. I hate that feeling. I keep us focused on the case.
“We need to find out who these three are,” I say. “Sug, Mari, and Sam.”
“Let’s call them,” Carter says. “It’s faster and cheaper.”
With nothing to lose, I dial the number for Sug, and after a cheerful greeting, it goes to voice mail. I recognize the voice right away. It’s Rachel Cromwell, the florist from WinCo. It pops into my mind that Luke called her “Sugar” and she thought, not ironically, that it was so sweet. She didn’t mention how raunchy her married lover was—or his penchant for sending photos of his anatomy. I give the girl some points, though. She didn’t send any of her own—at least not that we’ve seen.
I run through the list of names associated with both Mia and Luke. I can’t think of a single “Mari” or “Sam.” “Sam” could stand for “Samantha.” Is “Mari” short for “Marianne,” maybe?
I dial Mari next. Like the first call to Rachel’s number, this one goes to voice mail. I don’t recognize the voice.
“This is Detective Nicole Foster of the Aberdeen Police Department. You are not in trouble, but I need you to get back to me as soon as possible.”
I repeat my number twice and hang up.
The next call I make is to Sam. It goes to voice mail, the standard type set up by the service provider.
I leave a similar message.
“Seems like no one wants to answer a call from you,” Carter says.
“A mother would late at night if her kid wasn’t home. Most others probably prefer to play the message rather than answer a call ID’d as the Aberdeen Police Department.”
“Our business cards tucked into a doorjamb aren’t the best kind of direct marketing, either,” Carter says. “Whenever I leave one and follow up with a second visit, I’m told, ‘The wind must have blown it way,’ or some such malarkey.”
“Who says malarkey nowadays?” I ask.
Carter grins. “I do,” he says. “That’s who.”
“You are from another time,” I say with an exaggerated sigh, looking at the front page of the newspaper. There’s a picture of Luke and Ally—one I hadn’t seen. It had been printed on a T-shirt worn by a young woman.
Underneath the picture, written in block letters, are the words: JUSTICE FOR ALLY. STOP BABY KILLERS!
I wince at the photo. As much as I despise Luke Tomlinson, I know that no matter how long his sentence, his time in prison will be a short one. Men who do what he’s done to his own child don’t last long.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Friday, August 25
While Carter works an unrelated missing-persons case, I return to WinCo, where I find Rachel Cromwell behind the counter. The warm smile she has for the gentleman she’s talking to dissolves when she sees it’s me inching toward her. I wait for her to finish ringing up the man’s Get Well, Mom bouquet.
“What now?” she asks me. “I’ve told you everything. You can’t come here and question me again. I could lose my job. My boss found out about me and Luke and says that I could be bad for business. I just put flowers together. That’s all I do. I do something that makes people happy. You want me to lose that?”
I let her finish. She needs to get it out.
“I’m not here to cause you any problems,” I say.
“Are you here for flowers, then?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, Rachel. I’m here to cross some t’s and dot some i’s. It will only take a minute.”
“If my boss sees you,” she tells me, “he’ll fire me. I know he will. The publicity has been rough on him. Seeing the name of your store in connection with a dead-baby headline—wrong or right—is a customer killer.”
“A minute,” I say. “I promise.”
She looks across the busy store. “Okay. Back room. Hurry.”
I follow her as she disappears behind a big display of summer sunflowers.
She turns and faces me when the door shuts.
“What do you want now?”
“You told me that you and Luke were finished,” I say.
“Right,” she says. “That’s what I said.”
“Did you have any contact with him in the days before Ally died?”
She folds her arms. “Not really. I mean, I saw him here. We didn’t talk. Why are you asking me this?”
I ignore her question. She’s not primary to the case, and I don’t want to be the cause of her losing her job.
“Did he send you pictures of his body?” I ask. “You know, private parts?”
She stays quiet for a beat. “Yeah. He did.” Her eyes widen. “You have those photos?”
“Photographs of
Luke? Yes.”
“What about me?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t have any photos of you, Rachel. Did you send some to Luke?”
She looks down at the floor and then up at me. Her eyes are suddenly full of fear.
“A few,” she says. “Maybe a dozen. I don’t know. God, I don’t want them out. They were a mistake. They were something that he insisted I do for him.”
I show her the exchange between “Sug” and Luke.
“Yeah,” she says, “that’s me. I feel so stupid.”
“I’m not here to make you feel stupid,” I tell her. “I’m here to confirm that this is you.”
“It’s me. But this was way before anything happened with Ally. I can’t be part of this case. If you make me part of it, I will lose my job.”
I feel sorry for her.
“You are a part of it,” I say. “You went on TV. It doesn’t help the case, going to the press like that.”
Rachel fidgets with her hair. “Mia asked me to,” she finally says. “I’ve known her a long time. Before I met Luke.”
“I see,” I say, letting her twist in the wind a little.
Rachel fixes her eyes on mine.
“You don’t have any of my photos?” she asks.
We don’t. Not the kind that I’m thinking she’d sent to Luke—the kind he sent to her.
“It appears not,” I say, watching the color come back to her face. “It seems that Luke bleached them right out of his phone. Didn’t back them up on the cloud or anything. At least that’s as far as we know.”
Tears come to her eyes, and she wipes them with her floral smock.
“Thank you, Detective.”
She doesn’t need to thank me, but I let it sink in as though I deserve it. I need one more favor. One more piece of the Luke Tomlinson puzzle—the most important one.
“Do you know a Mari? That’s with an i, not a y. Maybe pronounced ‘Mah-ree.’”
“Mary who?” Rachel asks. “We have four Marys who work here. If you count a Marianne and Mary Louise.”
“A girl that Luke was seeing?”
She lets out a nervous laugh. “God, no. The Marys I know are old. In their thirties. Or even older.”
I was just beginning to like this girl.
“Luke never mentioned Mari? Or maybe Samantha?”