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.”
A strong hand knocked on the door-Flemming-LaMoia knew this before the door opened.
LaMoia repeated, “It’s a free country. I can’t tell you what to do. They can’t tell you what to do. No one can make you say anything you don’t want to.” He shouted toward the door. “Yeah?”
Flemming threw the door open. In his strong, rich baritone, he addressed the parents, “Mr. and Mrs. Kittridge, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” He glanced over at LaMoia venomously, for not waiting, and then back to the parents. He introduced himself and his two special agents. “I’m sure Detective LaMoia-”
“Sergeant,” LaMoia corrected, interrupting. He said, “You still don’t know my rank?”
“-has asked you a few questions. We’d like to start all over if you don’t mind. The sooner we get this information, the better our chances of getting your daughter back.”
“Trudy,” Kay Kalidja supplied.
“Trudy,” Flemming repeated.
David Kittridge glanced over at LaMoia and then complained to Flemming, “Just like you’ve gotten all the other children back?”
LaMoia felt the warm rush of success as Flemming flashed him another angry look.
David Kittridge lifted his right hand, holding it out for everyone to see. Gripped tightly between white, bloodless fingers was a tin penny flute.
CHAPTER 47
“Do you know the aquarium well, the big viewing room that is under all the fish?” the creamy female voice inquired.
“Yes,” Daphne answered.
“Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”
“See you there.”
The walk to the aquarium felt good, in part because it was nearly entirely downhill. Daphne worked herself up to a good heart rate, past cranes and Caterpillars and jackhammers all busy making the population deaf. The city refused to stop growing. Unable to spread out, it grew up now, the new buildings pushing higher and higher into the sky, winning views of the bay and blocking the view of others. The streets closed in around the pedestrians. The town of Seattle was gone, a city having replaced it.
Elliott Bay’s restless, wind-scuffed green waters caught the sunshine in highlights, like Italian marble with flecks of mica angled to the sun. Freighters and ferries, their white wakes flowing behind them like wedding veils, called out in deep-throated cries. A jet rocked its wings on final approach, its wheels like tiny talons reaching for the ground.
On its best day, no city was as beautiful, no city held her heart as this one. She knew she would never leave, although she had considered doing so-distance would force a fresh start. She also knew that if she stayed she would likely marry Owen Adler. Fear had led to her breaking off the engagement the first time. Fear of being filthy rich, of attending fund-raising dinners and ribbon-cutting ceremonies instead of working psych profiles and would-be suicides. Fear of losing her identity, not a fear of her love for this man. She trusted her love. She appreciated his humor, the attention he paid her, his intelligence, confidence and determination, the way he put others first, especially Corky, his adopted daughter. She loved Corky nearly as much as he did.
She walked right past the aquarium before she realized what she had done. Owen was like that-he could occupy her in ways no other man ever had.
The aquarium was crowded with tourists and a busload of students on a field trip. Most of the display areas were kept dark, the visitor’s attention focused on the fish tanks in the walls. She navigated her way through the throng and made her way to the descending ramp that led down into the center of an enormous tank, where the humans became the observed, surrounded on all sides and overhead by coral, water and fish of a dozen varieties.
Special Agent Kay Kalidja occupied one of the two viewing benches, her purse and sweater set beside her holding a spot for Daphne, who sat down. The glass arched above them, fish swimming directly overhead, passing from one side of the tank to the other. Kalidja did not look at Daphne but at the fish. She pointed out a sand shark with a suckerfish attached. “I feel like that sometimes,” she said in her pleasing island lilt, “the one attached.”