Shoes.
Mitch crossed over to the shelves. They were all a foot high. Tall enough for shoes, neatly lined up.
Or shoeboxes. Which would explain why her father said there were shoes on the shelves, but all the shoes were actually under her bed.
Shoeboxes. Why would anyone kill Lora Lane for shoeboxes? What did she have in them that was so important?
Lora Lane was a young teenager in a forty-year-old body. Her room was pink and frilly, with shelves of horses, her dresser covered with small, ornate boxes containing single pieces of jewelry. Some of the jewelry appeared to be quite expensive, and Mitch would need her father to document where the pieces came from.
Perhaps Lora had a boyfriend. He killed her. Stole. . what? Money? Drugs?
Mitch could see how a woman like Lora, with a young girl’s mind, could be used by someone unscrupulous. She worked in a tackle shop at the marina. Drug smuggling? Possibly, especially since drugs had been found in her bathroom.
Grant Duncan, who was heading up the forensic investigation, approached Mitch. He held up an empty vial that looked like it would hold an ounce of fluid.
“What’s that?”
“It tested positive for Rohypnol. It was found in Ms. Lane’s purse.”
“So she drugged Claire.”
“It looks like it. I’m going to have the coroner run tests on Ms. Lane as well. She may have residue on her fingers.”
“I just don’t understand what’s going on here.” Mitch stared once again at the empty shelves. “The police chief’s daughter drugged Claire. . why? Because she was being mean to her boyfriend?” Mitch frowned. “Did Frank Lowe put her up to it?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
One of the sheriff’s deputies stepped into the room. “I found a witness, Agent Bianchi.”
Finally.
Fifteen minutes later, Mitch was sitting at the police chief’s desk in the small Isleton police station, walking distance from the police chief’s house. He had Grant with him, and sitting across from him was a ten-year-old kid. It was two o’clock in the morning and Mitch felt every one of his thirty-eight years. The kid looked both wide awake and excited.
His name was Josh Frazier and he lived across the street from the Lanes.
“Where are your parents, Josh?” Mitch asked.
“My mom works late on Fridays and Saturdays. She’s a waitress in Lodi.”
The deputy who had found the kid watching the police activity with binoculars from his bedroom, concurred. “Nita Frazier. She’s on her way.”
“And she always leaves you alone at night?”
Josh glared at him. “Are you going to get my mom in trouble?”
“No, I-”
“Because I’m not going to help you if you’re going to get my mom in trouble. I told her when I turned ten-five months ago-that I was old enough to stay by myself. Why pay Mrs. Fatzoid five dollars an hour to watch television? My mom only makes eight twenty-five an hour, plus tips.”
“Mrs. Fatzoid?” Mitch questioned.
“Gretchen Flannigan,” the deputy said. “She lives two blocks over.”
Mitch shook his head. “Josh, I’m not going to get your mom in trouble.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay.” He crossed his arms, still suspicious.
“Deputy Pierson says that you have information about who hurt Ms. Lane tonight.”
“Lora’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Mitch said. “Was she a friend of yours?”
Josh shrugged. “She was weird, but nice. My mom said she wasn’t right in the head, and to be nice to her. So I was. But my mom also said that Lora was smarter than people thought she was.”
“What did you see tonight?”
“The Mercedes.”
“Mercedes?”
“Yeah, an S550. My dad was a mechanic. He knew everything about cars. I only know a little.”
“Where’s your dad now?”
“He died a long time ago. When I was eight.”
Mitch assessed the kid. Ten? Yeah, he looked ten. He acted much older.
“Okay, Josh, tell me everything you saw or heard from the time your mom left for work, which was”-he checked his notes-“five thirty.”
“Mom left. Um, she said no one could come over, but Andy down the street came by for an hour to play my new Wii game, Lego Indiana Jones. Did you see the movie? It was hot.”
The movie. “I saw the first three.” When they were released.
“Cool.”
“When did Andy leave?”
“Six thirty. He had to be home for dinner. And then I played some more; later I heard voices outside so I looked. It was the gang of five.”
“Gang?”
“Yeah. The vets. Two from World War Two, one from Korea, two from Vietnam. My mom and I make them cookies on the weekends, and they go to the Rabbit Hole almost every night. They never leave that early. They were talking loudly, and I didn’t really hear anything accept that Tip was arrested for something. Then Lora walked by and crossed at the corner-it would be faster if she just cut through the street, but she always crosses at the crosswalk-and went home. I almost went over-Lora is real nice to me-but then the Mercedes drove up and the two men got out.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Not really.” He shrugged. “It was dark.”
“Would you recognize them again if you saw them?”
“No. But I’d recognize the car. There’re not a lot of S550s out there, and this one was custom.”
“How could you tell?”
“The spoiler on the tail, for one. And there was a valance on the front, but I didn’t get as good a look at it. The S550 doesn’t come standard with spoilers.”
“You have a good eye, Josh. Your dad would be proud.”
He squirmed. “Thanks.”
“Anything else? Do you know how long they were inside?” Mitch knew the kill had been quick.
“Like twenty minutes. Maybe more.”
That surprised Mitch.
“They were taking boxes from the house. Lora was helping them. They were shoeboxes, I think. A bunch of them. They put them in the trunk of the car. Then they went back inside, came out a couple minutes later, and drove off.”
“What time?”
“Before nine. That’s when Drake amp; Josh comes on, and I never miss it.” It was dark, but before nine. That put the killers’ arrival at between 7:30 and 8:30.
Mitch asked the deputy to escort Josh to another office until his mother arrived. He turned to Grant. “How many Mercedes S550s are registered in Sacramento and surrounding counties?”
“I already sent Kent a query. He should have a list shortly.”
“How does this connect to Frank Lowe? Or Tom O’Brien for that matter?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” Grant said. “Could be a coincidence, and maybe they thought Claire was snooping around about their drug smuggling. Anytime you put illegal drugs into the mix, you have problems. But I’ve already talked to the DEA and they’re calling in their regional agents to see if there’s anything out there that ties Isleton or Lora Lane, Frank Lowe, or Tip Barney to drug smuggling, Rohypnol, or anything else.”
Mitch didn’t think this had anything to do with drugs. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Meg had called him earlier, and Claire was awake and under guard. She would be going home in the morning. Mitch wished he could have been the one sitting at her door, but with Steve out of commission, he was the only one who knew the principals of the case. And Claire didn’t want him around. It was more important to find out who tried to kill her, who’d killed Maddox, and who’d framed Tom O’Brien.
He glanced at his watch-3:30. He needed a couple hours’ sleep before heading to Mather Field, where Don Collier was being brought in on a military transport plane at ten a.m.
“I’ll drive,” Grant said, as if reading Mitch’s thoughts. “My team is here for the night, no one is getting into the Lane house or the Rabbit Hole. We’ll sit tight and finish processing the evidence, but you need to sleep or you’ll be a damn good target for the bastard who shot Donovan.”