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“Wanna bet?” Cindy kissed my cheek. And then I was swept along by whatever dream featured me in a starring role. I sunk into a deep hole of agonized sleep, waking only as sunlight streamed through Cindy’s bare windows.
I forced myself to sit up, swung my legs off the couch, saw the note from Cindy on the coffee table saying she’d gone out for rolls and coffee.
Then the day hit me for real.
Jacobi and Macklin were having a staff meeting this morning at eight. Every cop on the Tyler-Ricci case would be there — except me.
I scribbled a note to Cindy, stuck my feet in my shoes, and raced out the door.
Chapter 42
JACOBI ROLLED HIS EYES when I edged past him, slipped into a seat in the back of the squad room. Lieutenant Macklin gave me a short, glancing stare as he summarized the meeting so far. In the absence of any information regarding the whereabouts of Madison Tyler and Paola Ricci, we were assigned to interview registered sex offenders.
“Patrick Calvin,” I read from our list as Conklin and I got into the squad car. “Convicted sex offender, recently released on probation after serving time for the sexual abuse of his own daughter. She was six when it happened.”
Conklin started the car. “There’s no understanding that kind of garbage. You know what? I don’t want to understand it.”
Calvin lived in a twenty-unit, U-shaped stucco apartment building at Palm and Euclid on the fringe of Jordan Park, about a mile and a half from where Madison Tyler lived and played. A blue Toyota Corolla registered to Calvin was parked on the street.
I smelled bacon cooking as we crossed the open patio area at the front entrance, climbed the outside stairs, knocked on Calvin’s aggressively red-painted door.
The door opened, and a tousle-haired white male no more than five foot three stood in the doorway, wearing plaid pajamas and white socks.
He looked about fifteen years old, making me want to ask, “Is your father home?” But the faint gray shadow on his jowls and the prison tats on his knuckles gave Pat Calvin away as a former inmate of our prison system.
“Patrick Calvin?” I said, showing him my badge.
“What do you want?”
“I’m Sergeant Boxer. This is Inspector Conklin,” I said. “We have a few questions. Mind if we come in?”
“Yes, I mind. What do you want?”
Conklin has an easy way about him, a trait I frankly envy. I’d seen him interrogate murdering psychos with a kind of sweetness, good cop to the max. He’d also taken care of that poor cat at the Alonzo murder scene.
“Sorry, Mr. Calvin,” Conklin said now. “I know it’s early on a Sunday morning, but a child is missing and we don’t have a lot of time.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Get used to this, Mr. Calvin,” I said. “You’re on parole —”
“You want to search my house, is that it?” Calvin shouted. “This is a goddamned free country, isn’t it? You don’t have a warrant,” Calvin spat. “You have shit.”
“You’re getting awful steamed up for an innocent man,” Conklin said. “Makes me wonder, you know?”
I stood by as Conklin explained that we could call Calvin’s parole officer, who would have no problem letting us in. “Or we could get a warrant,” Conklin said. “Have a couple of cruisers come screaming up to the curb, show your neighbors what kind of guy you are.”
“So . . . mind if we come in?” I asked.
Calvin countered my scowl with a dark look of his own. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” he said.
And he stepped aside.
Chapter 43
CALVIN’S PLACE WAS SPARSELY DECORATED in early Ikea: lightweight blond wood. There was a shelf of dolls over the TV — big ones, little ones, baby dolls, and dolls in fancy dresses.
“I bought them for my daughter,” Calvin snarled, dropping into a chair. “In case she can ever visit me.”
