“I told her I doubted it would be a problem. I know everybody at Quinn, Morgan. I told her she should talk to the office manager and we would work something out together. Maybe she went by there on her way home.”
“Do you have patient parking here, Dr. Crane?” Vince asked.
“I have three spots behind the building. If those are full, they have to use public parking.”
“It’s all right if we take a look back there,” Vince said. “There’s a back door, right?”
“Yes. I’ll show you.”
He led them down a hall and out a door into the shadowed alley behind the building. Vince took it all in—the surrounding buildings, the lack of activity. The building directly next door had a large FOR LEASE sign up on the wall. JAMESON REAL ESTATE with the phone number of the agency and a photo of a pretty, smiling agent inviting interested parties to call.
Two of the three parking slots marked for Peter Crane, DDS, were taken. One by a sleek, dark blue Jaguar sedan, and one by a white Toyota Celica.
“I couldn’t tell you if Miss Vickers parked back here or not,” Crane said. “Ava might know.”
“Are there any surveillance cameras back here?” Vince asked, scanning the buildings across the alley.
“I don’t know. I don’t have one.”
The door to the office opened and the all-knowing Ava leaned out.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But Miss Navarre called, Dr. Crane. There was some kind incident at school. She asked if you could please come pick Tommy up.”
“Incident?” Crane repeated. “What now?”
“She didn’t elaborate.”
Crane sighed. “I’m sorry, guys. I’ve got to go.”
“By all means,” Vince said. “Family first.”
Ava held the doctor’s car keys out to him, but looked to Vince and Mendez. “Our hygienist, Robin, will be in tomorrow. She did Miss Vickers’s cleaning.”
“Just for the record, Dr. Crane,” Mendez said. “Where were you last Thursday night?”
“Home with my family. Call me if you have any more questions,” Crane said, going to the Jag. “But I honestly don’t think I’ll be of much help. I’m sure I’m not the last person who saw Karly Vickers that day.”
“Why do you say that?” Vince asked.
“Because the last person to see her that day must have been the person who took her, and I know that wasn’t me.”
He opened the car door but stopped short of getting in. “Is there a search going on?”
“Not yet,” Mendez said.
Crane’s brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t there be? One woman is dead. One woman is missing. It would be terrible if she ended up dead too just because no one was looking for her.”
“We’re looking for her,” Mendez said. “You have my card if you think of anything.”
“He’s right, you know,” Vince said as Crane’s car disappeared down the alley. “Karly Vickers could be out there somewhere with the clock ticking down on her life right this minute—if she’s not already dead. She’s probably wondering if anyone is looking for her, if anyone has even noticed she’s missing.”
“Lisa Warwick went missing on a Friday,” Mendez said. “She was found dead eleven days later. Karly Vickers went missing last Thursday. Let’s hope our killer sticks to a schedule.”
Vince gave him a sober look. “I wouldn’t bet a life on it.”
31
Mendez stared down at the decayed human finger lying in the dirt near the end of the bench on the third- base line. Flies buzzed around it and crawled on it. The thing was so rotten, the skin had split and started coming off.
He glanced sideways at Vince, who had taken a seat on the bench. They had picked up the call as soon as they made it back to the car from Crane’s office. Go to Oak Knoll Elementary immediately. It seemed like an unlikely place for crime. And the crime didn’t seem like anything to call the cops over—one kid beat up another kid in gym class.
A severed human finger, Vince conceded, made all the difference. He shook a couple of pills out of a small white bottle and tossed them back.
“You all right?” Mendez asked.
“Headache,” he said. Like someone-had-put-an-axe-through-his-head headache.
“What do you make of this?”
“Your vic’s missing an index finger. There’s an index finger. We don’t need Sherlock Holmes for this one.”
Hicks bent over the finger too. He shooed the flies off it. They were back on it in two seconds. “Man, that’s gross. The Farman kid must have picked it up at the scene Tuesday night.”
“The girl told me he touched the body,” Mendez said. “She didn’t say he broke off a finger and stuck it in his pocket.”
“Bag the finger and let’s go talk to the boy,” Vince said, pushing himself to his feet. “I can’t wait to hear what he has to say for himself.”
They convened in the conference room. Dennis was sitting in a chair, sullen, his lip split, his clothes dirty. He hadn’t spoken a word since he’d been dragged indoors by Mr. Alvarez. The gym teacher told Anne it had taken a good ten minutes for him to calm down out on the baseball diamond.
“He just kept swinging and fighting, spewing out the filthiest language I ever heard,” he said. “It was like he was possessed or something. I had all I could do to hang on to him.”
That in itself was frightening, Anne thought. Dennis was bigger than the rest of her students, but he was still a little boy. Paco Alvarez was built like a fireplug with massive arms.
“I think if I hadn’t been there to stop him, he would have killed Tommy Crane,” he whispered, glancing over at Dennis as if he were expecting him to leap over the table and charge like a wild animal.
Dennis lifted his head and glared at them, as if to say, “What are you looking at?” then looked down once more at the tabletop.
“That’s some serious rage issue,” Alvarez said. “The kid had blood in his eye, you know? Like a fighting dog.”
Anne knew nothing about fighting dogs. She was beginning to think she didn’t know much about anything. Shouldn’t she have seen warning signs in Dennis Farman? Or had the warning signs been written off to the easy excuses: Dennis is insecure, Dennis is jealous, Dennis is a garden-variety bully? Maybe there was no such thing.
“I don’t know what to say, Paco,” she said softly. “He’s got bigger problems than I’m equipped to deal with.”
The door opened and Principal Garnett came into the room with Detective Mendez and two other men—a redheaded man in his thirties with a badge clipped to his belt, and a tall man in his late forties with chiseled good looks, an air of command, and dark eyes that set their gaze squarely on her.
He broke away from the others and came toward her, holding out his hand.
“You must be Miss Navarre,” he said. His hand was big and warm, and swallowed hers whole. “I’m Detective Leone.”
Anne turned her head to introduce Alvarez, but the gym teacher had moved on to speak with Mendez. They looked as if they knew each other.
“Detective.”
“You’ve had quite a shock today,” he said, still holding her hand.
She didn’t object. He was a big man—on the lean side, but still there was a solidness about him that seemed
