Kidnapped ik-10

by Jan Burke

  I had wondered if he’d be comfortable around men, since his last two handlers were women, but I needn’t have worried. He immediately took to Frank.

  “Did you eat dinner?” Frank said, rubbing Altair’s ears in a way that made the dog look up at him in adoration.

  “No, but…”

  “Why don’t you change into something a little less rain-soaked? I’ll let Ethan know that he can come out even if Cody decides to stay in, and I’ll heat up some soup for you.”

  The magic of ear rubs had apparently released Altair from the spell that had forced him to shadow me, and I was able to ditch my damp clothing (the shoes were never going to be the same) and change into a sweater, sweatpants, and warm socks. A glance in the mirror told me I still looked as if I had rolled up on the beach with the last high tide, but I didn’t have the energy to make improvements.

  Frank had been working on the case out at the oil island. A tough day, I could tell, however much he related most of it as a shaggy-dog story about his partner, Pete Baird, getting seasick during the trip across the harbor. Eventually we heard, in far more concise and sober terms, about the sorrowful return trip.

  The question of the boys’ identities had been resolved rather quickly, mostly because the boys had been missed and several friends had known of their plans. “A couple of the parents are furious with the friends who didn’t join in the fun — mad as hell at those kids for not warning them about what their sons were planning.”

  “Let me guess,” Ethan said. “The parents who spent the least amount of time with their kids when they were breathing.”

  “Maybe,” Frank said, in a way that meant yes.

  By then I was finished eating, and I told them about my own day. I was able to get through it fairly easily until I started talking about the events at Sheila Dolson’s house. Frank managed to hold on to his temper when I told him I had entered the house before Hailey called the police, a little detail I had left out when I called him to tell him I’d be really late getting home. He kept petting Altair as I told the next part, and I hurried along to the events that took place after the police had arrived.

  Sheila’s case had been assigned to Vince Adams and Reed Collins, because it was possibly related to the homicide at the Sheffield place. They weren’t happy with me for disturbing the scene to the degree I had, but knew that I could have done far worse.

  They were also frustrated that I couldn’t describe the car or driver, more frustrated when I said I didn’t see the driver leaving the house itself — it could have been anyone who happened to be driving down the alley just at that time.

  Vince made me go over the business of the lights, although several switch plates and other surfaces had been wiped clean.

  “I can almost tell where he’s been by where he cleaned up,” Vince said.

  There were some footprints — apparently our approach had hurried the killer off before the floors could be mopped. My own shoes were low-heeled and smooth-soled. The bottom of the killer’s had a definite pattern and tread of some type — a running shoe, hiking boots, or something of that nature.

  The rain had let up by the time the crime-scene investigator started to look at the trail the killer had left on his or her run through the backyard. A short distance from the back steps, the investigator bent close to the ground and said that he thought he was going to be able to get some clear impressions from places where the killer’s shoes had sunk a little into the mud in the backyard. I was relieved. I had worried that my own tracks in the house might have made a mess of footwear impressions.

  A few minutes later he was calling to Vince and Reed.

  Vince went to see what he was so excited about and came back into the house all smiles.

  “Cinderfella has dropped a slipper for us.”

  “You found a shoe?”

  “Stepped into an especially soft spot in the mud, and the shoe stuck. Guess you put enough of a scare into him, he didn’t take the time to pick it up.”

  “Sure it’s a he?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a man’s running shoe, but not a very big one. A woman could have been wearing it.”

  WHEN I told Frank this part of the story, he said, “If they can get DNA from the shoe, they’ll be able to answer that question.”

  “How long will that take?” Ethan asked.

  “If they hurry and bump it up to the top of the priority list, a few days. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine — a few months to over a year.”

  “Even then, that won’t necessarily solve the case,” I said. “DNA at the scene is just half of the equation. It has to match a sample taken from someone with a record.”

  “Not even that simple,” Frank said. “It has to match a DNA sample taken from someone whose sample has been taken and processed and entered into the state or federal database.”

  Ethan said, “I guess I always thought if you could get DNA, the case was solved.”

  “DNA is a great form of evidence,” Frank said, “and it is important. But it isn’t the only kind of evidence the lab has to process, and it’s not always available at every crime scene.”

  “But when you do have it…?”

  “Ethan, the whole system is overloaded. There’s a backlog of convicts’ DNA, not just crime-scene DNA. There’s also a possibility that the killer has no record or isn’t in any DNA databases, in which case, the DNA will only be useful if some detective’s work finds a suspect.”

  “And the testing still takes time then, I suppose.”

  “Right. And if it doesn’t match, you’re back to square one. Have I mentioned the part about convincing a jury yet?”

  By two-thirty we had all wound down from discussing the problems of the criminal justice system.

  Altair chose the floor next to Frank’s side of the bed over his crate. I chose next to Frank in the bed over any other choice.

  I was pleased to be there. Still, I lay awake.

  Now that I wasn’t working on a story or coping with the events themselves, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I hadn’t liked Sheila Dolson. She was an attention-seeking phony. But that wasn’t grounds for murder.

  I thought of how close I had come to seeing her killer. I kept wondering if my reluctance to get out of Hailey’s car and walk through the rain had cost Sheila Dolson her life. Or saved my own.

  My restlessness woke Frank. He seemed to know what the problem was without my saying a word. He didn’t try to tell me not to worry, or to get me to talk about it. He pulled me closer to him and slowly stroked my back. Worked on me something like the ear rubs worked on Altair. I felt my whole body relax. Sometime just before dawn, we finally caught a little sleep.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tuesday, April 25

  7:30 A.M.

  HUNTINGTON BEACH

  GRANDFATHER called, upset. Carrie and Genie helped take care of the boys while Mom talked to him.

  Carrie gathered the recycling and took it out to the garage. She had just come back into the house and had stepped into the bathroom to wash her hands, when she heard Mom hang up the phone in Dad’s office, which was across the hall, its door not directly opposite, but six or seven feet farther down. Dad, who had just come downstairs, stepped into the office without seeing Carrie.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Sheila’s dead.”

  There was a pause, then Mom said, “That doesn’t surprise you, does it, Roy?” Her voice was cold, the way it got when she was really angry.

  “What makes you say something like that? Of course it surprises me.”

  Carrie told herself that she should turn on the bathroom light and fan, flush a toilet, close the bathroom door — announce her presence in some way.

  Instead, she kept the light off and closed the door all but a crack, making sure that no one would see her or her reflection in the big mirror over the sink.

  “You seem to need to meet clients at some odd hours lately, Roy. You drove out late last night
in the rain. What the hell was that about?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, tell me about Sheila.”

  There was a long pause. “It’s quite horrible. She was shot to death.”

  “Shot to death!”

  Carrie had no idea who Sheila was. She prayed that Genie was handling everything okay with the boys and wouldn’t call for her.

  “Did you know her well?” Mom asked.

  “No, didn’t really know her at all. She was a little younger than me. I think she went looking for her birth parents and found out her dad was in prison for beating her mom. Sad story. Who killed her?”

  “No one knows.” Mom’s voice was tense as she said, “Apparently a reporter showed up right after it happened.”

  “A reporter? Anyone you know?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. We worked together at the Express.”

  Carrie worked hard at not making any noise, but this revelation almost made her yelp. Mom had worked at a newspaper? That didn’t seem possible.

  “And?” Dad said, impatient.

  “Her name is Irene Kelly. And let me tell you, she’s a bitch on wheels.”

  “What do you mean?”

  After a brief hesitation, Mom said, “Why, just that she’s tough and sharp. She won’t let this go. She’ll run down every lead imaginable. Even if the police forget about this, she won’t. She’s a veteran reporter with lots of connections all over the city.”

  Dad said, “Well, good. That’s good. Is Graydon shaken up? Maybe I should go over there.”

  “Maybe,” Mom said. “By the way, I hear Kelly just did a big piece on missing children.”

  After a pause, Dad said, “Really? I’ll have to take a look at it. Did he say anything about that?”

  “Oh, not a word.”

  Carrie heard her father picking up his keys — he’d walk by here any minute. She shut the door to the bathroom quietly and locked it. She turned on the light and was about to turn on the water when she heard her dad say, “Where are the kids? We should have shut the door.”

  “They’re in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll say good-bye to them, then.”

  Carrie waited until their voices retreated, then quickly washed her hands and hurried toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, there you are,” her dad said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I have to go into Las Piernas to see Grandfather.”

  “Where were you?” her mother asked Carrie.

  “I took the recycling out,” Carrie said.

  “She was gone a loooong time,” Aaron said.

  Carrie froze, but Genie said, “No she wasn’t, silly.” She smiled at their parents. “Aaron thinks any minute Carrie isn’t here to spoil him is a loooong time.” She mimicked him perfectly, making both Aaron and Troy laugh. Carrie smiled gratefully at her.

  Her mother was still studying her, but that was interrupted by Troy accidentally knocking over a carton of milk. Carrie and Genie immediately set to work on cleaning up the mess while Mom and Dad soothed Troy.

  “Sorry to leave you with all this chaos, honey,” Dad said to Mom. He watched her, then said, “Do you want to come with me?”

  Mom seemed surprised. “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the kids…”

  “We can bring them, too.”

  “At a time like this?”

  “You know Dad loves to see any of his grandkids. They’ll cheer him up.”

  “Why does Grandfather need cheering up?” Genie asked.

  “One of the cousins died, Genie,” Dad answered. “I don’t think you ever met her. Do any of you remember Sheila?”

  All four children shook their heads. There had been deaths before this — Dad had twenty brothers and sisters, and a few aunts, uncles, and cousins had been lost in the past few years. Grandfather had children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren now, and many of his children and grandchildren had adopted children or become foster parents with large families of their own. Carrie loved it when the whole family — well, most of it — had its annual reunion. It almost felt as if there was a whole country of Fletchers, even if not everyone used that last name. But she couldn’t remember anyone named Sheila.

  “She didn’t go to any of the reunions,” Dad said.

  Carrie waited to see if her dad would say Sheila had been shot, but he didn’t.

  Her mom said, “Roy, is it safe? You don’t think… there won’t be anyone…”

  “No, of course not. I’ll call just to make sure. How soon can you be ready?”

  “Kids?”

  “Five minutes!” they shouted in unison, a familiar family joke about how much time they would need. Genie and Carrie took the boys by the hand and hustled them upstairs to get them out of their pajamas and dressed.

  Carrie was already dressed, Genie just needed to put on shoes. Carrie followed Genie to her room, where she had just enough time to sign to her sister, Thank you! I have so much to tell you.

  Genie signed back, Not in the car. Mom will be watching.

  Mom didn’t know sign language, and if she saw the two of them engaged in secret conversation, she would put a stop to it. Dad knew how to sign, so they were only supposed to practice when he could watch what they said.

  At Grandfather’s, Carrie signed as Genie finished tying her shoes.

  Yes, her sister signed back, standing. Genie called out to the boys that it was time to go downstairs, even while she continued signing to Carrie, Yes, at Grandfather’s.

  CHAPTER 21

  Tuesday, April 25

  10:04 A.M.

  NEWSROOM OF THE

  LAS PIERNAS NEWS EXPRESS

  JOHN decided to go with the additional follow-up story about missing children, which kept me busy all morning.

  When I called Jane Serre about her son, Luke, I found her not only sober but purposeful. Gerry the murder victim buried on the Sheffield Estate was a different man from Gerry the ex-husband who had once been believed to have robbed her of her child. She was determined to find both her son and Gerry’s killer. “That bastard not only took my child from me, he made me hate poor Gerry for no good reason. He killed Luke’s father.”

  Neither of us mentioned our worst fears about what might have become of her son.

  I started to call all the numbers I had gotten off Sheila Dolson’s notepad. The first seven were numbers of news producers or city rooms. If I reached a friend in the news business when I called them, I asked what they could tell me about her. The answer was the same everywhere: She was viewed as an obvious publicity-seeker whose credentials were out-of-state and therefore suspect. Local law enforcement claimed that she had no relationship with the Las Piernas Police Department or Sheriff’s Department. One or two news organizations had planned to check into her background with an eye toward possibly talking to her in the future, but now that there would be no future, those plans were canceled. Now, her murder was another matter, and what could I tell them about that?

  Not much. Read the Express online and you could find out just about everything I knew about Sheila.

  Ben Sheridan had called me before I left for work, angry that he had to learn about Sheila’s death when Vince and Reed had come by first thing in the morning — and asked him if he had read the Express yet. He calmed down and admitted that it would have been a little awkward for me to have phoned him at one o’clock in the morning. He further admitted that he might be reacting so strongly because while he was talking to the detectives, he had received a call from Anna. “She’s upset about the murder, upset about Sheila’s lies, and… I’m not really the person she wants to turn to for comfort in this particular matter,” he said.

  After we hung up, I realized I needed to ask him some questions that I knew he wouldn’t answer without permission from the authorities he was working for, so I called the coroner’s office and asked for the county coroner, Carlos Hernandez. I wanted Carlos to give Ben permission to let me know if the teeth Sheila and Altair had suppose
dly found had anything to do with either Luke or Gerry Serre.

  My husband had told me on more than one occasion that Carlos had a terrific sense of humor, but if Frank had seen that side of Carlos, I hadn’t. Carlos, in my experience, treated the press with formality and seriousness. After a few moments of solemn consideration of my request, he said, “If the homicide detectives in charge of the case have no objections, I have no objections.” He preferred to talk it over with Vince and Reed, and said that he’d ask Ben to call me, or would call me himself. As he ended the call, he said, “I’m sure you are in a great hurry, and I would hate for this office to appear to be too cautious.”

  That made me start to believe Frank could be right about him.

  Ben called less than thirty minutes later to say — with no small amount of exasperation — that he believed the teeth had belonged to two different children.

  “Because?” I asked.

  “They are the same tooth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Numbering systems probably won’t mean anything to you, will they?”

  “Give me terms that will mean something to our readers.”

  “What challenges you set before me!”

  “Ben.” I said it in a warning tone.

  “Both teeth are deciduous upper central incisors which seem to have been lost through exfoliation.”

  “Ben.”

  “All right — for a layperson — they are deciduous teeth. That means they are baby teeth or milk teeth. Lost through exfoliation — they fell out in the natural way anyone loses baby teeth, just before the permanent teeth appear. You have four central incisors — these are upper front teeth. A child’s upper front teeth.”

  “Okay, so this is why Vince and Reed were joking around about the tooth fairy.”

  “Yes. These teeth fall out and then the permanent teeth emerge. Except these two aren’t from the same child, because they are from exactly the same position in the mouth — left front teeth. They could not be from the same child, because every child has only one such tooth in his or her mouth.”