James Patterson - The 6th Target

Conklin parked at the curb, and we took the Napa stone path six steps up to the front-door landing.

I lifted the brass knocker and let it fall against the striker plate on the old oak door, knowing that inside this beautiful house were two people absolutely steeped in fear and grief.

HENRY TYLER OPENED THE FRONT DOOR, paling as he seemed to recognize my face. I held up my badge.

"I'm Sergeant Boxer and this is Inspector Conklin -"

"I know who you are," he said to me. "You're Cindy Thomas's friend. From homicide ."

"That's right, Mr. Tyler, but please… we don't have any news about your daughter."

"Some other inspectors were here earlier," he said, showing us down a carpeted hallway to a sumptuous living room furnished authentically in 1800s style – antiques and Persian rugs and paintings of people and their dogs from an earlier time. A piano was angled toward the windows and a zillion-dollar panoramic view of the bay.

Tyler invited us to sit, taking a seat across from us on a velvet camelback sofa.

"We're here because a witness to the kidnapping heard a gunshot," I said.

"A gunshot?"

"We have no reason to think Madison has been harmed, Mr. Tyler, but we need to know more about your daughter and Paola Ricci."

Elizabeth Tyler entered the room, dressed in beige silk and fine wool, her eyes puffy and red from crying. She sat down beside her husband and clasped his hand.

"The sergeant just told me that the woman who saw Madison kidnapped heard a gunshot !"

"Oh, my God ," said Elizabeth Tyler, collapsing against her husband.

I explained the situation again, doing my best to calm Madison 's parents, saying we knew only that a gun had been fired. I left out any mention of blood against glass.

After Mrs. Tyler had composed herself, Conklin asked if they'd noticed anyone who seemed out of place hanging around the neighborhood.

"I never saw a thing out of the ordinary," Tyler said.

"We watch out for one another in this neighborhood," said Elizabeth. "We're unabashed snoops. If any of us had seen anything suspicious, we would have called the police."

We asked the Tylers about their movements over the past days and about their habits – when they left the house, when they went to bed at night.

"Tell me about your daughter," I said. "Don't leave anything out."

Mrs. Tyler brightened for a moment. "She's a very happy little girl. Loves dogs. And she's a musical genius, you know."

"I saw a video. She was playing the piano," I said.

"Do you know she has synesthesia?" Elizabeth Tyler asked me.

I shook my head. "What is synesthesia?"

"When she hears or plays music, the notes appear to her in color. It's a fantastic gift -"

"It's a neurological condition," Henry Tyler said impatiently. "It has nothing to do with her abduction. This has got to be about money. What else could it be?"

"What can you tell us about Paola?" I asked.

"She spoke excellent English," Tyler said. "She's been with us only a couple of months. When was it, sweetie?"

"September. Right after Mala went home to Sri Lanka. Paola was highly recommended," Mrs. Tyler said. "And Maddy took to her instantly."

"Do you know any of Paola's friends?"

"No," Mrs. Tyler told us. "She wasn't allowed to bring anyone to the house. She had Thursdays and Sunday afternoons off, and what she did on those days, I'm sorry, we really don't know."

"She was always on her cell phone," Tyler said. " Madison told me that. So she had to have friends. What are you suggesting, Inspector? You think she was behind this?"

"Does that seem possible to you?"

"Sure," said Tyler. "She saw how we live. Maybe she wanted some of this for herself. Or maybe some guy she was seeing put her up to it."

"Right now, we can't rule anything out," I said.

"Whatever it takes, whoever did it," Henry Tyler said, his wife starting to break down beside him, "just please find our little girl."

PAOLA RICCI'S ROOM in the Tylers ' house was compact and feminine. A poster of an Italian soccer team was on the wall opposite her bed, and over the headboard was a hand-carved crucifix.

There were three main doors in the small room, one leading out to the hallway, one opening into a bathroom, and another that connected to Madison 's room.

Paola's bed was made up with a blue chenille spread, and her clothes hung neatly in her closet – tasteful jumpers and plain skirts and blouses and a shelf of sweaters in neutral colors. A few pairs of flat-soled shoes were lined up on the floor, and a black leather bag hung from the knob of the closet door.

I opened Paola's handbag, went through her wallet.

According to her driver's license, Paola was nineteen years old.

"She's five nine, brown haired, blue eyed – and she likes her weed."

I waggled the baggie with three joints I'd found in a zipper pocket. "But there's no cell phone here, Richie. She must've taken it with her."

I opened one of the drawers in Paola's dresser while Conklin tossed the vanity.

Paola had white cotton workaday underwear, and she also had her days-off satin lingerie in tropical colors.

"A little bit naughty," I said, "a little bit nice."

I went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet. Saw her various lotions and potions for clear skin and split ends, and an opened box of Ortho Tri-Cyclen, the patch for birth control.

Who was she sleeping with?

A boyfriend? Henry Tyler?

It wouldn't be the first time a nanny had gotten involved with the man of the house. Was something twisted going on? An affair gone wrong ?

"Here's something, Lieu," Conklin called out. "I mean, Sarge." I stepped back into the bedroom.

"If you can't call me Boxer," I said, "try Lindsay."

"Okay," he said, his handsome face lighting up with a grin. "Lindsay. Paola keeps a diary."

AS CONKLIN WENT TO SEARCH Madison 's room, I skimmed the nanny's diary.

Paola wrote in beautiful script, using symbols and emoticons to punctuate her exclamatory writing style.

Even a cursory look through the pages told me that Paola Ricci loved America.

She raved about the cafés and shops on Fillmore Street, saying she couldn't wait for nicer weather so that she and her friends could sit outside like she did at home.

She went on for pages about outfits she'd seen in shop windows, and she quoted her San Francisco friends on men, clothes, and media stars.

When mentioning her friends, Paola used only their initials, leading me to guess that she was smoking pot with ME and LK on her nanny's nights out.

I looked for references to Henry Tyler, and Paola referred to him infrequently, but when she did, she called him "Mr. B."

However, she embellished the initial of someone she called "G."

Paola reported charged looks and sightings of "G," but I got the clear impression that whoever he was, she was more anticipating having sex with "G" than actually having it.

The person mentioned most often in Paola's diary was Maddy. That's where I really saw Paola's love for the child. She'd even pasted some of Madison 's drawings and poems onto the pages.

I read nothing about plans, assignations, or vengeance.

I closed Paola's little red book, thinking it was the journal of an innocent abroad.

Or maybe she'd planted this diary to make us think so.

Henry Tyler followed Conklin and me out to the front step. He grabbed my arm.

"I appreciate your downplaying this for my wife, but I understand why you're here. Something may have already happened to my daughter. Please, keep me up to date on everything. And I insist that you tell me the truth."