Jan Burke - Kidnapped

“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.

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.