Erica Spindler - Blood Vines

Cal stepped in. “Consider this. Patsy knows it’s Dylan. She calls you to confess. She can’t reach you, and overwhelmed with guilt, kills herself.”

“Are we certain she killed herself?” Tanner asked. “What about a note?”

“No note. But I spoke with the SFME.” Reed opened his spiral. “An investigator Hwang. He called it a clear case of suicide. In addition, she had a history of depression and had attempted suicide twice before.”

Tanner finished off her donut, then licked the sugar from her fingers. “Is it that surprising? Something like that happened to my kid, I’m not sure I wouldn’t go nuts.”

“Autopsy’s happening today, pathologist will call it then.”

“Got word back on the pacifier,” Cal offered. “That particular pattern was available from 1982 to 1986.”

Reed nodded. “It could have belonged to Dylan Sommer. What about the wine crate?”

“Trying to piece together what’s left.” Tanner slid a manila folder across the table. “Robb’s report. Long bone measurements indicate the child was no more than six months old.”

Reed skimmed the report. Another marker that pointed toward Baby Doe being Dylan Sommer. “Remains on their way to the state lab?”

Tanner said they were, then added, “Has it occurred to you that big sister’s traumatic memory loss occurred because she saw or heard something that night?”

It had. The problem would be recovering those memories. If they even existed.

“I read the files,” he said. “She was questioned at the time. By the Sheriff’s Department, the FBI and a social worker. She was scared and confused, but seemed well adjusted. None of the interviewers felt she had seen anything she wasn’t sharing.”

Before either could respond, his cell phone buzzed. “Reed,” he answered.

“Detective, a woman is here to see you. One Alex Clarkson. Says it’s about Baby Doe.”

“I’ll be right down.” He ended the call and looked at his colleagues. “Be available. This may get interesting.”

“What’s up?” Tanner asked.

“Big sister’s downstairs.”

Friday, February 19

9:10 A.M.

Alex paced while she waited for the detective to come and collect her. She’d slept little the night before. But instead of tired, she was wired. She couldn’t stop thinking about the things she had learned from him or the confirmation of them she had gotten from the items in the trunk.

A brother. She’d had a brother. And a stepfamily. Years of her life she had no recollection of.

She wanted to know why.

She had brought the photo album with her. As proof. And in the hopes Reed, or someone else in Sonoma, could put names to faces in the pictures.

She turned to find him crossing the lobby toward her. “Alex,” he said when he reached her, “is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine.” She cleared her throat. “I had some questions… I hope just showing up like this isn’t a problem.”

“Not at all. Can I get you some coffee? Or a soft drink?”

“No, thanks. I’ve been up most of the night, caffeine’s the last thing I need.”

He cocked an eyebrow, expression bemused.

“That sounds a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it? What I meant is, I’ve been drinking coffee all night. Another cup and I might jump out of my skin.”

“That’d be a sight.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Let’s not do that, then.”

He was a cop. A detective. Yet he seemed so laid-back. Sort of aw-shucks, with an edge. Could he really be so unassuming, or was it an act? Some sort of cop schtick, meant to lull her into complacency?

“I found some photos,” she said. “I hoped you would look at them, help me put some names to faces.”

“I’ll be happy to try. Let’s go up to my office.”

His office consisted of a cubicle in the Violent Crimes Investigations unit. He moved a stack of folders from a chair so she could sit, then took a seat himself. The other detectives, busy with their own cases, hardly glanced their way.

“You say you found some photographs?”

“Yes. I went searching. I found them in a locked trunk, in the attic.” Alex realized her palms were sweating, rubbed them on her thighs, then retrieved the photo album from her tote bag. She opened it to the first photo and laid it on the desk so they could both see it. “That’s my mother,” she said. “Me by her side. I presume that’s Dylan in her arms?”

“I would think so. And that”-he tapped the man standing beside her mother-“is Harlan Sommer.”

“My stepfather?”

When he nodded, she studied the image. He wasn’t a tall man-only a couple inches taller than her mother-but was powerfully built. She wouldn’t describe him as handsome, but even in the photograph he exuded a commanding presence. She could see why her mother had been attracted to him.

She lifted her gaze to Reed’s. “How old was I when my mother married him?”

“I remember you were young, but not an infant.”

Not an infant. “Was I walking yet? Talking?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Sorry.”

“And when my mother took me away? How old was I then?”

“Five or so.”

“And Dylan? How old when he disappeared?”

“Not quite six months. What are you getting at here, Alex?”

“Just trying to fill in the blanks. Create a timeline.”

“Have you remembered anything? Since your memory’s been jogged?”

Alex thought of her strange vision, which had occurred before all this, and shook her head. “No, nothing.”

“You hesitated, Alex.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.” He searched her gaze. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. If I do, believe me, you’ll be the first to know.” She flipped forward several pages in the album, stopping on a big group shot. “How about these people?”

Reed studied the image. “I’m not certain of everyone, but that’s my mom and dad.” He tapped the photo. “And this is Harlan’s brother, Treven. His wife. May I?” he asked, indicating the album.

She said yes and he flipped through it, stopping when he recognized someone to point out, including himself. “That’s me. And your stepsister, Rachel.” He turned to a group shot of children, all outfitted in their Easter finery-girls in dresses and bonnets, boys in suits and ties. The younger children clutched the handles of baskets.

“The Sommer egg hunts,” he murmured, lips curving into a smile. “God, how we kids loved them. There you are,” he said. “You’re holding Dylan.”

She was, her Easter basket on the ground beside her. She looked so proud of herself, Alex thought. So happy.

His smile faded. “That was the last egg hunt. After Dylan disappeared, they stopped them.”

A knot formed in her throat; she swallowed past it. “A lot of the photos seem to have been taken in the same place. Any idea where?”

“Sure. The winery.”

“Winery?”

“The Sommer Family Winery. Back then, Harlan ran it. Sommer wines are well known in oenophile circles.”

“He doesn’t run it anymore?”

“His brother does. Took over after-”

“Dylan disappeared,” she guessed.

“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “The trunk, were there any other mementos of your brother?”

“Yes.” She looked away, then back, sudden tears stinging her eyes. “A Teddy bear and a christening gown. A couple outfits. Booties. A pacifier.”

He looked up from his notes. “Did you say a pacifier?” She nodded. “Do you have it with you?”

“No. It’s at my mom’s.”

“Hold a moment.” He unclipped his phone and dialed. “Tanner? It’s Reed. Do we have a photo of the pacifier? Great. I’ve got Alexandra Clarkson here, I’m going to bring her down to take a look at it.”