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Which was kind of a lie. He at least respected her ability to handle herself on the job. It meant that she’d be safer from real criminals with intent to harm her.
Nerdy psychologists who were no threat didn’t really count.
Ann was looking at her phone. “Her first name is Kit. Kit McKittrick. That name sounds familiar. Bill, didn’t I buy a doll with that name for your sister’s granddaughter?”
Sam laughed again, because he’d had the same thought. “That doll’s name is Kit Kittredge. One of the reporters mentioned it during an interview—asked her if she’d been named for the doll. She didn’t look amused.” He shrugged. “I read another article about her that said she’d grown up in the foster system. She was adopted by a couple named McKittrick. She served in the Coast Guard out of high school, earned her degree while serving, then joined SDPD and worked her way up.”
Ann turned her shrewd glance back at him. “You like her.”
His cheeks grew warm. “I respect her. She’s done good work, solving the murders of young women who would have been forgotten.”
She hmmed. “Like the ‘several’ that Navarro guy mentioned.”
“Exactly. When she got to my place last night, she thought I was involved in harming them. She was representing those young women. I mean, I didn’t like getting arrested, but once I was free, I understood her suspicion. Her priority was the victims. I didn’t know there were several, though. I thought there were only two.”
“And now there will be no more.” Bill stood up, signaling the end of the conversation, which was honestly a relief. “Who wants coffee?”
Ann raised her brows. “Decaf, dear.”
“Of course,” he said in a way that clearly indicated he hadn’t meant that at all. “Sam?”
“Sure. Thanks, Dad.” Sam gave Siggy a gentle stroke down his back. Hopefully they’d be back in his own apartment soon and this whole fiasco would only be a bad memory.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carmel Valley, California
Sunday, April 10, 12:10 p.m.
Hey, Kitty-Cat,” Harlan murmured, pressing a swift kiss to the top of Kit’s head. “I saw you and your boss on TV last night.”
She’d arrived for the McKittrick family’s Sunday dinner only to be mobbed by her many foster brothers and sisters chattering excitedly about Navarro’s press conference the evening before.
“I didn’t want to be there.” She hated the spotlight. She simply wanted to do her job.
“I know. But let your family be proud of you.”
“I did.” Kit had blushed at their accolades, but she’d let them celebrate. Celebrations were one of the things that the McKittricks did best, offering their foster kids an opportunity to see the good in life after being surrounded by pain.
“I’m proud of you, girl. More than you’ll ever know. So is Mom. Those families will get closure. They’ll no longer be stuck waiting for their daughters to come home.”
“It’s a blow either way,” Kit murmured, warmed by his praise. What the public thought about her wasn’t so important. That she’d pleased her boss was good. That Harlan and Betsy McKittrick were proud of her was everything. “But at least two more families will have bodies to bury.” Jaelyn Watts and Miranda Crisp could be laid to rest. Ricki Emerson’s body had been returned to her family years before. “We haven’t found one of the victims and two are still unidentified.”
“You’ll follow it through. You’ll keep searching for those girls’ names.”
Kit had already started the request for funds to consult with DNA databases. It was becoming easier to narrow the search for the Jane Does of the world with genetic genealogy technology. The public’s interest in knowing their roots had populated many of these databases, turning them into DNA treasure troves.
“I will,” she vowed. She let herself lean into Harlan, resting her head on his shoulder. It was uncharacteristic of her. She hugged him nowadays, able to accept that level of touch, but rarely did she lean on anyone of her own volition.
Harlan stilled. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. My gut’s gone all wonky with this case. There was a key witness that was a suspect for a little while, but I didn’t want to believe he’d done the crimes. I really didn’t want to believe it. Baz was all like, ‘He did it, the bastard,’ but I didn’t want it to be true.”
“That’s not like you,” Harlan said mildly.
“No, it’s not. Turns out he really was just a key witness and Baz was wrong.”
“That bothers you?”
