Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

Carlie Kittridge had forgotten. She ran out of gas eleven blocks from home, at the corner of 42nd and Stoneway. Blinded by her fear for her baby, she failed to pull the truck entirely off the roadway, leaving it dead, angled toward the curb and blocking traffic, the lights still on.

She came out of the truck’s cab at a full sprint, already warmed up from her volleyball, came out running like a thoroughbred from the gate. Seattle traffic being what it was, she left most of it behind as if it were standing still, blowing through intersections without looking, without slowing her pace in the slightest, her hysteria feeding off her charged system. The harder she ran, the more convinced she was of the trouble that lay ahead.

Ironically, it was the disabled pickup truck abandoned midlane that brought the police into it, not the abduction of Trudy Kittridge. Fearing a car-jacking, an abduction or simply a vehicle stolen for a joyride, the reporting motor patrol officer requested a black-and-white do a drive-by inquiry at the Kittridge residence-the name and address lifted from his wireless computer terminal that accessed DMV’s mainframe.

As Carlie Kittridge rounded the corner of 35th and Stoneway she was in abject horror and running faster than she had ever run in her life.

She approached the kitchen door already calling out for Gena, a neighbor’s fourteen-year-old daughter in whom Carlie had placed an enormous amount of deserved trust. Gena was fourteen going on thirty. She loved Trudy like a member of the family, and her own mother-a fantastic friend-lived just four houses down the block.

“Gena, it’s me,” she called out loudly, swinging open the kitchen door. Gena lay there on the floor, her clothes torn, her fourteen-year-old body exposed.

Carlie Kittridge’s scream was heard for several blocks.

LaMoia awakened from a comatose sleep, summoned by the irritating beeping of his pager. His first response was anger, his second was a feeling of fear and dread. 8:00 P.M. He had fallen asleep at his kitchen table. He could conceive of very few reasons for the summons, not one of which he wanted to face.

He read the phone number from the device and heaved a sigh of relief. Sheila Hill’s home telephone, an unpublished number. She had decided to talk. He complimented himself for understanding her. She was not an easy keeper.

“It’s me,” he announced over the phone.

“Their name is Kittridge.” Her blank tone of voice and the announcement drained all color from his face. She read off an address. “Handle it.”

She hung up, leaving him with a hollow, panicked feeling.

Another kidnapping.

Within an hour, photocopies of Trudy Kittridge’s face were faxed to airports, train stations, ferry companies, the image being shown to cab drivers, limo drivers, bus drivers. Within the next hour every local television station would cut away to the same photo. Hundreds of thousands of people would see that face, and yet if the Pied Piper lived up to his reputation, no one would see the child.

Daphne awaited him as he pulled up, her face grim, her fists clenched tightly. Her job, to define the Pied Piper in terms of behavior, was taking its toll. She looked exhausted.

LaMoia said, “You take the parents, I’ll take the scene. We gotta work fast. This place’ll be jumping in a couple minutes. We need the head start. We pow-wow in the kitchen in ten minutes. You believe in miracles?”

“No,” she answered.

“Me neither.”

LaMoia had never smoked. He drank beer, but only socially. He had been blind drunk twice in his life, and had hated the lack of control. But at that moment he envied the habitual, whatever the vice, because it gave the person a preoccupation, an object of distraction. He had only the first officer’s description of the fourteen-year-old unconscious on the kitchen floor to occupy his thoughts. He would have given anything to erase it from his mind. He could visualize her lying there where now there was some litter from the EMT’s medical work and AFIDs from the air TASER. Sight of the AFIDs reminded him of the stonewalling of evidence. Sarah and the others deserved better than this.

Daphne joined him in the kitchen as planned.

She told him, “The mother is real clear on the Spitting Image outfit. It was a tiny little sweatshirt. A gift. Knew the name and everything.”

“Did you tell her not to share said same with our distinguished colleagues?”

“That’s suppressing evidence, John.”

“Well shame on us.”

A pair of Lincoln Town Cars pulled up in front.

LaMoia said to her, “Stall them. Give me as much time as you can.” He took two steps, turned and asked, “Where are they?”

“Upstairs. To the left.”

LaMoia threw open the bedroom door, stepped inside, and closed it quickly behind himself. “Mr. and Mrs. Kittridge?” The couple was trashed, the man worse than the wife, who looked as if she had run a marathon. He knew about the volleyball game, though he wasn’t sure how the Pied Piper had made the connection.

He displayed his badge and introduced himself. He edged over to the window and peered out. Flemming, Hale and Kalidja. The full team. They walked as a group with strict determination. Flemming held an intensity that LaMoia did not want to experience firsthand-the guy’s career was in flames, and SPD was pouring on the gasoline.

“You’ve just spoken with Ms. Matthews about a certain garment that your child … that Trudy … received as a gift.” He glanced out the window nervously for a second time. Daphne wouldn’t be able to hold them for long. If the Bureau made the Spitting Image connection, then they were likely to close in on a suspect, perhaps ahead of Boldt, and Sarah’s chances went down the drain. He owed this effort to Boldt, who had made the Spitting Image connection in the first place.

“The sweatshirt,” the wife muttered.

Nervous perspiration breaking out all over, he spoke quickly to the parents, knowing he had one, and only one, shot at an explanation. “Okay. Here’s the thing. What I’m about to tell you is opinion. My opinion. But keep in mind, I’m lead detective for Seattle Police on this case. Okay? Just keep that in mind. This information, this Spitting Image connection, is what we call a good lead. You understand? It’s important information to us. Very important. To the investigation, I’m talking about. To getting Trudy back. But there are other people investigating these kidnappings, okay? The FBI I’m talking about. And they aren’t exactly our bosom buddies, if you know what I mean. They’ve had this investigation for nearly six months , and parents, just like you, are still waiting for news of their children. Okay? Six months. Gimme a break! These guys can’t even remember the kids’ names! You know what a leak is? Good. That’s great. Well,” he lied, “we think there is a leak inside the FBI. We think information like this-the Spitting Image information-is better kept close to home.” He heard footsteps growing closer. Flemming and his team. LaMoia felt a bead of sweat run down his chin. He wiped it off. “Better kept right here in Seattle. You want to deal with three-piece suits and black shoes, you go right ahead. It’s a free country. I can’t stop you. But me, I’m right down the street. You pick up the phone, I’m there. Okay? Public Safety building. Right downtown. These guys? Go ahead and try to reach them on the phone. I can’t even reach them. What chance do you have?” The footsteps were only a few yards away. “What chance does Trudy have? That’s what you’ve got to ask yourself. Six months they’ve had this. Think about that. They’re trying to handle a dozen cases. What’s to show for it? Why? Because somebody’s not clean, that’s why.”