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“Well, maybe she outlived her usefulness.”
“One less person to cut in on the ransom. Still, to shoot her in front of the little girl.”
“Was it the nanny?” I asked. “Or did they shoot the child?”
We lapsed into silence as we turned onto Washington, one of the prettiest streets in Pacific Heights.
The Tyler house stood in the middle of the tree-lined block, a stately Victorian, pale yellow with gingerbread under the eaves and plants cascading over the sides of the flower boxes. It was a dream house, the kind of place you never imagined being visited by terror.
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.
Chapter 34
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?”
