The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller

But she was gone.

I checked several more aisles, frantically searching for her but with no luck. Rushed to the front of the store as well; again, no sign of her anywhere. Then I ran out into the parking lot.

And found my worst fears confirmed. Our parking spot was empty. She was gone, and it was getting dark.

I sat on the curb, buried my face in my hands, and cried.

Christmas Eve: a small boy, abandoned in a parking lot, far from home.

Alone.

Chapter Thirty

The dog was going to live. I gave the receptionist my credit card, told her to do whatever it took to make sure he was well taken care of.

As for CJ and me, we were both tired, and the events of the past few hours were starting to weigh heavily on me emotionally and physically. We were hungry, and I needed a place to rest my leg and settle my nerves. The Italian restaurant on Second and Fenwick seemed to be a safe bet: small, quaint, and nearly empty.

We ordered our food, then sat silently for a while. I was busy processing my afternoon misadventure and watching CJ rearrange her silverware again and again.

Finally, I said, “So what’s Baker’s problem?”

“You mean besides the obvious?” She moved her fork to the other side of her plate again, didn’t bother looking up.

“The guy doesn’t like me.”

She laughed a little. “I don’t think he likes anyone, except maybe himself. Not even sure about that.”

“He acted awful suspicious, like he thought I might be involved or something.”

“I think he probably just didn’t appreciate you walking in on his murder scene. They don’t much like that, especially a reporter, and especially one who’s not from around here…you get extra piss-off points for that.”

I raised my brows, nodded.

She pointed her spoon at me. “But I did warn you about the locals.”

“Noted.”

The waiter came with our food. Lasagna for me, angel hair pasta with stewed tomatoes and olive oil for CJ. I watched our server leave, then said, “And while we’re on the subject of narcissistic cops… what’s Jerry Lindsay’s story?”

She laughed. “Jerry’s okay. You just have to know how to work him.”

“Apparently, I don’t.”

She sipped her wine, wiped her lips with a finger. “Why? What happened?”

“He was an ass. Wouldn’t tell me anything.”

A needling grin. “Like I told you...”

“Yeah, yeah… I don’t know the secret handshake.” I gave my lasagna a stab. When I looked back up, she was swirling her wine in the glass, apparently amused by her own thoughts.

“What?”

She leaned back and stared at me for a moment, and then, “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but for someone who’s supposed to be doing a story about missing and exploited children, you sure seem awful interested in this one.”

“I’m fascinated by it.”

“Yeah?”

I took a bite, chewed, nodded.

“And why’s that?”

“The death penalty, the lack of a body, the mother killing herself …in a mental hospital, no less. You have to admit it’s a sexy story.”

She stuck her fork in the pasta and watched as she carefully twirled it. “Yeah, I’m just not buying it.”

“Not buying what?”

“The story you’re trying to sell me here. About how fascinating you find it all. There are lots of fascinating stories about missing kids everywhere. And like I said before, I’m sure California’s got plenty of them. So how ‘bout it, Pat, wanna tell me what really gives?”

“What do you mean?”

“All this interest in the Kingsley case. What it’s all really about?”

“It’s not about anything. Just looking at some things.”

“Things,” she said, gazing toward the ceiling as if contemplating the word, then right back at me, “and you won’t tell me what those things are?”

“Nothing special.” I turned my attention to the lasagna, pushed at it with my fork, fully aware she had her eyes trained right on me.

She said, “Keeping secrets, are we, Patrick?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Uh-uh.” I looked up and made an attempt at sincere eye contact; she wasn’t buying that either.

“Pat….” she said, her tone slowly climbing an octave.

“What?”

“Wanna tell me how come you don’t want to play? How come all of a sudden you’re taking all your toys out of the sandbox?”

“I never had them in the sandbox. And how come you’re cornering me?”

“I’m a reporter. It’s what I do. And do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Only when I feel like someone’s trying to force my hand.”

“Force your hand…” She pushed her mouth to one side, looked away, nodding. “Okay. Now I get it. I didn’t realize we were on opposing teams. Good to know.”

“CJ, it’s not like that. I didn’t mean it that way—”

“Then what?”

I fell silent.

“You know, Pat, we are both on the same side here, just in case you didn’t realize it. And if you’re worried about me trying to steal your story or your thunder, you’ve got the wrong gal, ‘cause I just don’t roll that way. Not that I expect you to believe that. You barely know me, but —”

“So what’s your point, CJ?”

“My point is that we both have the same interests here. That’s all. We’re after the same thing. It’s our job to find the truth. Everything else is secondary, at least from where I stand.”

I remained silent.

“Listen, Pat,” she said, her voice taking on a tone of diplomacy, “if you’ve stumbled across something important—and I get the feeling you have—I want to hear about it. But even if you’re still looking, I think I can help you there, too.”

“What makes you think I need any help?”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” She closed her eyes, smiled, shook her head. “All I’m saying is it’s pretty obvious you’ve been hitting some walls, and that’s not likely to change. Nobody here wants to talk to strangers about the Kingsley case. I told you that. It’s just the way it is. Me on the other hand, I’m from around here. I know the place, know the people, and I know a lot about this story…and people will talk to me.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but—”

“I wasn’t finished. I can help you cut through a lot of the crap around here. Why should we spin our wheels separately when we can cover twice the ground, twice as fast? Know what I mean?”

I thought about it some more.