bracelets that rattled like dull bells.
“Who’s in there?” she asked, all business.
LaMoia answered, “Father, Paul; mother, Doris. Their little boy, Henry. The neighbors, the Wassermans. She’s Tina. Don’t know his name. They’ve got kids, I think. McKinney’s inside.”
She wanted full control of the environment. “We’ll lose McKinney for the time being. Let’s try to get Henry moved upstairs with the neighbors. I doubt the mother will let him out of her sight, but ultimately we want only the Shotzes downstairs with us. Once we’re settled, we offer our sympathies. We try to avoid letting them find out that neither of us has kids, because we lose rapport there. We give them a little background about the task force, try to build up their hope, their faith in us. All this before we ask a single question. I’ll handle it. When we reach question time, you’ll take the wheel. Start all your questions with your eyes toward the floor,” she acted this out as she explained, “lifting them slowly as you work into the question, punctuated by eye contact as the question is completed. Soft voice. And something new for you, John: humility.
“There are things you should know,” she continued. “For a parent, a kidnapping is more difficult to endure than a death. We can expect some guilt, maybe blame between them. They may even blame us. They are desperate. Vulnerable. They’ll turn to anything, anyone that they believe might return their child to them: psychics, private investigators, clergy, you name it. Part of our job is to protect them from this. We want their faith in us. This is, more than likely, their first contact with SPD beyond a traffic cop. This first impression will carry lots of weight as to how much cooperation we get. You like to fly by the seat of your pants. Fine. You’re great in the Box because of that. But this is not an interrogation. Keep reminding yourself of that. They are convinced they know nothing that could help us. TV, movies, novels, make them expect miracles. So we go easy with reality for now. We soften them up. If we do our jobs properly tonight-we go slowly-by tomorrow they’ll be feeding us information even they didn’t know they knew. We step on the gas too hard,” she said, adjusting to his language, “and we’ll flood it, and it won’t restart.”
“I’m with you, Lieutenant.” She knew that her senior rank bothered LaMoia. Most psychologists would have been on the civilian payroll. She had done the academy, carried a weapon and a shield believing one could not consult and advise cops without knowing everything there was to know.
She said, “For the record, we’re going to get her back, John. Never mind that the other cities failed. That doesn’t have to affect us. If we start discouraged we’ll never overcome it.” Looking toward the house she said, “These people have information for us. We both know that. They doubt it. The clock is running. If everyone does their job-and we’re part of that-then by morning that child is back in her crib.” She glanced over at him. “Believe it.”
“Save the cheerleader routine for them, Lieutenant. They’re the ones who need it.”
The woman-the mother, Daphne thought-looked a wreck. The father was drunk and had been for some time. Daphne introduced LaMoia and herself twice but knew the only thing that registered was their occupation: police.
The mother clung to her three-year-old son like life itself. Daphne offered her sympathies and the husband burst into tears, mumbling apologies to his wife, who clearly did not want to hear them.
The parents had been briefed by Mulwright concerning the baby sitter’s ordeal as the victim of a stun gun and that she had been transferred to the hospital. Daphne drew this out of the mother, regretting she had not had the opportunity to tell them herself and gauge their reactions. Doris Shotz then rambled on about asking her neighbor to check the house for her, and the neighbor’s discovery of the unconscious sitter and little Henry, who had been found safe hiding in a corner of the kitchen. The neighbor had rescued Henry, phoned the police and had called back the train car’s cellular pay phone connecting with Doris-which, according to the husband, “was when all hell broke loose.”
LaMoia mentioned the string of kidnappings that had swept up the West Coast and that the Feds attributed the abductions to a man they had dubbed “the Pied Piper.”
Doris Shotz said she’d heard about the kidnappings, but her next words were absorbed in her sobs and lost to both police officers.
Together, Daphne and LaMoia then filled in the blanks: the FBI’s involvement in the investigation, the task force headed by SPD. Determining that the husband had purchased the dinner-train tickets, LaMoia directed to him, “Do you remember who you told about the dinner train?”
“No one,” he said, numbly.
“A co-worker, a secretary, a neighbor?”
“No one. It was a surprise. Doro thought we were going to Ivar’s.”
Doris Shotz nodded.
“You made the arrangements yourself?” LaMoia inquired.
“Yeah, yeah. Had the tickets mailed to the shop.”
LaMoia checked his pad. “Micro System Workshop.”
“Doro,” the husband chastised his wife, “are you listening? These other kidnappings? They have not gotten one of these kids back.” He asked LaMoia, “Isn’t that right?”
LaMoia avoided an answer, directing himself to the wife. “Can you explain some pieces of broken glass found in front of your daughter’s crib? A drinking glass, maybe-a mirror?”
“There was nothing like that when we left,” the wife replied. “I cleaned the room just this morning.”
“Vacuumed?” Daphne asked softly, doubting the woman could focus on anything but her missing child.
LaMoia sat forward on the edge of his chair, the detective in him smelling hard evidence: the Pied Piper’s shoes, his pants cuffs, his pockets. …
Doris Shotz mumbled nearly incoherently, “There’s never been any broken glass in Rhonda’s room. That carpet was laid a month before she was born-”
“That’s true,” the husband responded, reaching for his wife’s hand. “If there’s glass in that carpet, this bastard brought it with him.”
“My baby,” Doris Shotz pleaded.
“We’re going to bring her home,” Daphne declared. She met eyes with the mother: Doris Shotz did not believe.
CHAPTER 5
No one knew better than a homicide cop the ability of the human mind to forget.
Not only was LaMoia required to locate and interview any potential witness, but on occasion such a witness had the potential to blow a case wide open. A realtor-whose job requirements included sizing up potential clients- seemed a decent place to invest his energies. The door-to-door work, conducted by a combination of task force detectives, FBI and SPD alike, had produced little of value. If Sherry Daech had seen anything-suspicious or not-the night before, LaMoia needed to interview her immediately. Memories deteriorated quickly.
He feared that any attempt to bring her downtown would send the wrong message. He did not want attorneys involved. A quiet chat in her office seemed more the thing.
But when his first two attempts to make an appointment failed, he placed his third call as a prospective buyer, and this time he scored, convincing him that Sherry Daech wanted nothing to do with the police, good citizen or not.
“Something in the high threes, low fours, on Mercer Island. If you have anything that fits.” A secretary returned a call less than thirty minutes later. Daech would meet him out on Mercer in an hour if he had the time. LaMoia scribbled down an address.
The house was off an unbearably steep lane that serviced three others and led to a private dock on Lake Washington. LaMoia squeezed the red whale through a gauntlet of stone walls that would have sheared a fender off without thinking anything of it, and swung a hard left into the tight driveway. Daffodils, blooming in regimented rows like little suns, lit the front of the house and cut a hole through the interminable gray of Seattle.
Daech presented herself perched on a low garden wall, wearing a red Mexican skirt, a flouncy blouse marked
