“Almost.”
“You said you needed me to help you put an end to everything. What is it?”
Henry Wade rubbed his chin, thinking about that bottle in his pickup as he gazed to the street and back in time. “The call,” Henry said, “it’s about the old call Vern and I got on the armed robbery.”
“I see.”
“I told you how it went bad. How there was a hostage.”
“The hostage was shot and the suspect pleaded guilty and was sent away.”
“More coffee?” the waitress interrupted.
Henry waved her off.
“The whole world changed that day, Jay.”
“I know, Dad, and it took a toll.”
“It took a toll on Vern and it took a toll on me. Look what it cost me. Your mother, my job as a cop. I’m still paying for it.”
Jason patted his father’s hand.
“The other day, this kid, Quinn, he comes from out of nowhere and he starts exhuming the dead.”
“Who’s Quinn?”
“Hotshot insurance investigator, or loss-recovery agent. Something. He calls me up, he’s pushing my buttons about the old case, acting like I know something. Then he’s telling me that the monster’s out of his cage and he’s scheming. I know he’s planning something.”
“Who’s out? Hold on, Dad, I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
“I can’t live like this, Jay. It’s eating me alive. I’ve got to put things to rest.”
“Dad?”
“I’ve been carrying this rot inside me long enough. I’m going to see this guy and I need you to come with me. I have to see him now.”
“What guy? And why do you need me? Dad, you’re not making sense.”
Henry Wade reached inside the chest pocket of his sportcoat and Jason saw the grip of his holstered gun before he unfolded a slip of paper.
“I need you to go with me to this address because I don’t know what I’m going to do, how I’m going to react, because he’s not dead. I’m going to get in his face with one question-just one question.”
“Dad, what’s this all about? Tell me what’s going on.”
“Jay, the hostage was a child.”
“Jesus.”
“A little boy.”
“God.”
“He died in my arms.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
R yan Taylor and Justin Marshall were scared.
Within minutes of Detective Dominic Perelli’s call, the boys were standing in Rhonda Boland’s kitchen.
“Where’s Brady?” Justin said.
“It’s all right fellas. We’re working on that.” Perelli said. “We need your help.”
Ryan and Justin had been hurried to the house by their anxious mothers, Gayleen Taylor and Fanny Marshall, who had always pitied “poor Rhonda” behind her back. Such a tragic case. Widowed by a deadbeat who had the nerve to die in debt.
Gayleen and Fanny surveyed the activity, their fears mounting when they glimpsed Rhonda down the hall in the bedroom talking to two men in suits taking notes. Something worse, much worse, than a burglary had happened.
“What’s going on?” Fanny asked.
“A police investigation. We need your sons to help us,” Grace said.
“Help with what?” Gayleen asked.
“We need to speak to them privately about what they may have seen in the park the other day. We need to do it as quickly as possible.”
“Why, what happened in the park? What does this concern?” Fanny said. “Why won’t you tell us? You are going to frighten our boys. Where’s Brady?”
Grace nodded to Officers Lloyd and Vossek.
“Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Marshall,” Lloyd said. “If you’d please come with us, we’ll explain.”
Grace and Perelli took the boys to the backyard, where they sat at a picnic table.
“Guys, you’re not in trouble, okay? We need your help,” Grace said. “This is extremely important. Do you remember going to the park with Brady the other day?”
“We go every day,” Ryan said.
“Do you recall a time recently where Brady talked to anyone, like a stranger, or a man at the park?”
“A couple days ago, there was a guy, some stranger,” Ryan said.
“Do you know him?”
Head shakes.
“What did he look like? Black guy, white guy? Tall? Fat? Tattoos?”
“White guy.”
“Old? Young?”
“Maybe like him”-Justin pointed at Perelli-“only skinnier.”
“And we saw him hanging around and stuff before,” Ryan said.
“When before?”
“A couple of days ago, I guess.”
“Something bad happened, didn’t it?” Justin asked.
Grace glanced at Kay Cataldo working at the window.
“Guys, what was the stranger doing in the park?”
“Sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper,” Justin said.
“And drinking coffee,” Ryan said.
“Drinking coffee? Like in a take-out cup?”
“I think so.”
“Want to go for a short ride in a detective car?” Grace said.
A few minutes later, they stood before the park bench where the stranger had sat.
The trash basket beside it was half-filled. Grace squatted, concentrating on the dates she saw on the discarded newspapers. The trash had not been emptied for several days.
“Guys, you said he was drinking coffee from a take-out cup.”
“He was drinking from that one,” Ryan said.
“Come closer, show me without touching.”
Ryan pulled his face to the trash, pointing to the red, white, and blue take-out cup under the plastic take-out bag.
Perelli and Grace exchanged glances.
It was the only red, white, and blue take-out cup in the trash.
“Are you sure, Ryan?”
“Yes, I saw him crumple it before he left.”
Grace was making notes.
“Did you see if he got into a car, or where he went?”
Justin and Ryan shook their heads.
“Can you remember, Ryan, was the man wearing gloves?”
“No gloves.”
Dial tones sounded. Perelli had turned away to call Kay Cataldo to get to their location fast.
“Uhm,” Justin said, “what happened to Brady?”
Grace looked at the boys.
“We’re working on that.”
Grace turned back to the cup, pulling it out carefully and holding it as if it were the Holy Grail.
“And this cup may give us the answer.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
T his is it, baby.
At her table in the Seattle Police Crime Scene Investigation Unit near the airport, Kay Cataldo examined the take-out coffee cup plucked from the trash in the park near Brady Boland’s home.
She worked on it with near reverence because she knew, knew deep in her heart, that they had something. The cup was abundant with wonderfully clear latents.
Grace was bang-on. This was their Holy Grail.
It was the cup used by the Boland boy’s kidnapper, who wore the shoes worn by Sister Anne’s and Sharla May Forrest’s killer. He’d left a nice size-11 impression under the Bolands’ back window.
Thank you.
We are so on to you, you mother-
Cataldo had dusted and photographed the prints with an old reliable CU-5, before collecting them with lifting tape. She had a complete and crisp set of impressions from the right hand.
She studied the loops, whorls, and arches.
Very good.
Time was her enemy.
She worked quickly but with expert efficiency, beginning with the thumb, which in a standard ten-card is “number one.” Carefully, she coded its characteristics before moving on to the other fingers. Then she scanned the prints and entered the information into her computer.
Now she could submit them to the automated fingerprint-identification systems, AFIS, for a quick search through massive local, state, and nationwide data banks for a match.
After typing commands on her keyboard, Cataldo finished the last of her bagel and orange juice while her computer processed her data for possible matches. In less than two minutes, it came back with two hits from the Seattle PD’s local data bank.