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“Could he know that we didn’t get the note? Could he know that we didn’t mean to defy him?”
“I just don’t know, Mr. Tyler, and I can’t really guess —”
Elizabeth Tyler interrupted me, the cords of her neck standing out as she strained to talk.
“Madison is the brightest, happiest little girl you can imagine. She sings. She plays music. She has the most wonderful laugh.
“Has she been raped? Is she chained to a bed in a basement? Is she hungry and cold? Is she hurt? Is she terrified? Is she calling out for us? Does she wonder why we don’t come for her? Or is she past all that now and is safe in God’s hands?
“This is all we think about, Officers.
“We have to know what has happened to our daughter. You have to do more than you ever thought you could do,” Elizabeth Tyler told me. “You must bring Madison home.”
Chapter 97
A PLASTIC BAG WITH THE KIDNAPPER’S NOTE INSIDE was positioned on my desk so that Conklin and I could both read it.
IF YOU CALL LAW ENFORCEMENT, SHE DIES.
IF WE FEEL ANY HEAT, SHE DIES.
We were still rocked by those words, unable to shake the sickening feeling that by actually working the Ricci/Tyler case, we might have brought about Madison’s death.
When Dave Stanford arrived at noon, we turned the kidnapper’s note over to the FBI. Jacobi ordered a pie from Presto Pizza. Conklin pulled up a chair for Stanford, and we opened our files to him.
An hour later, it still all came down to one lead: the Whittens in Boston and the Tylers in Pacific Heights had the Westwood Registry in common.
We divvied up the client names that Mary Jordan had copied from the Register and started making phone calls. By the time the square box was in the round file, we were ready to go.
Conklin and Macklin went in Stanford’s car. And Jacobi and I paired up, partners again for the day.
It was good seeing Jacobi’s homely mug beside me, his expanding heft in the driver’s seat.
“Pardon me for noticing, but you look like you’ve been keelhauled,” he said.
“This goddamned case is making me sick. But since you mention it, Jacobi, I’m wondering about something. Did it ever occur to you to lie to me when I look like hell?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“I guess that’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Ah, don’t get mushy on me now.” He grinned, took a hard right onto Lombard, and parked the car.
Over the next five hours, we tracked down and interviewed four Westwood Registry clients and their nannies. By the time the sun was lighting up a swath of pink cotton-candy clouds across the western sky, we had joined Macklin and the others back at the Hall.
It was a short meeting because our combined twenty-five man-hours had yielded nothing but praise for the Westwood Registry and their imported five-star nannies.
At around seven p.m. we told one another we’d pick it up again in the morning. I crossed Bryant, got my car out of the lot, and headed toward Potrero Hill.
Streetlights were winking on all across the city as I parked outside my home sweet home.
My hand was on the car-door handle when something eclipsed the light coming in from the passenger-side window, throwing me into shadow.
My heart hammered as I swung my head around and a dark figure came into view. It took a few seconds for my brain to put it all together. Even then, I doubted my eyes.
It was Joe.
Chapter 98
