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“Ah, jeez,” I muttered.
Conklin stepped between me and the computer monitor.
“I’ll take a copy of that,” he said.
“My pleasure.” Klassen slipped a CD out of the drawer, put it in a red plastic case, and handed it to Conklin.
“You have any pictures or films of children on this computer?”
“Hell, no. I’m not into kiddie porn,” Klassen huffed. “Besides being in violation of my deal, it’s not my thing.”
“Yeah, that’s terrific,” Conklin said smoothly. “So now I’d like to take a quick search through your computer files while the sergeant walks through your house.”
“Looks like a neat place, Mr. Klassen,” I said. “I love what you’ve done with it.”
“What if I say it’s not okay?”
“We’ll take you in for questioning while we get a warrant,” Conklin told him. “Then we’ll impound your computer and search your house with dogs.”
“The stairs are that way.”
I left Conklin and Klassen at the computer console and strolled downstairs, poking my head into every room, opening doors, checking closets, looking and listening, hoping with all my heart to find a little girl.
Mr. Wu was changing the sheets in a second-floor bedroom when I showed him my badge and the picture of Madison Tyler.
“Have you seen this little girl?” I asked him.
He shook his head vigorously — no. “No children here. Mr. Klassen not like children. No children here!”
Ten minutes later, I was taking deep breaths of cold, clean air on the front steps when Conklin joined me, closing the heavy oaken door behind him.
“Well, that was fun,” I said.
“His alibi is going to check out,” said Conklin, folding a list of names and numbers into his notebook.
“Yeah, I know it will. Rich, you think that guy is straight?”
“I think he’ll twitch for anything that moves.”
Klassen was in his driveway when Conklin and I got into our squad car. He lifted a hand, gave us another cheese-eating smile, said, “Buh-bye.”
He was whistling to himself, buffing the silver haunch of his Jaguar, when our humble Ford shot away from the curb.
Chapter 54
CONKLIN AND I SAT ACROSS from each other in the squad room. Beside my phone was a pile of unreturned messages from various tipsters who’d reported seeing Madison Tyler everywhere — from Ghirardelli Square to Osaka, Japan.
Dr. Germaniuk’s autopsy report of Paola Ricci was open in front of me. Bottom line — cause of death: gunshot to the head. Manner of death: homicide.
Dr. G. had stuck a Post-it note to his report. I read it out loud to my partner.
Sergeant Boxer,
Clothing went to crime lab. I did a sexual-assault kit, just to say I’ve been there, but don’t count on it coming back with anything positive due to total submersion, etc. Bullet was through and through. No projectile recovered.
Regards, H. G.
“Dead girl. Dead end,” Conklin said, running his hands through his hair. “The kidnappers have no problem with murder. And that’s all we know.”
