reruns of Gilligan’ Island or some damn thing until three in the morning. What’s up?”
“Sir, I’m calling you from my home about a case you handled some years back. You might want to ring the watch commander in our north-county substation to confirm that I’m with the department, and get my home number from them for callback.”
“I’ve got caller ID,” Ozgard said. “I can see who you are good enough for now. If what you want from me seems at all sticky, then I’ll do what you say. But right now let’s go for it.”
“Thank you, sir. There’s a missing-person’s case of yours that might have some pertinence to a situation here. About five and a half years ago—”
“Judith Kesselman,” said Ozgard.
“You jumped right to it.”
“Deputy, don’t tell me you found her. At least don’t tell me you found her dead.”
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“No, sir. Neither dead or alive.”
“God help her, I don’t expect alive,” Ramsey said. “But it’s going to be a miserable day when I know for sure she’s dead. I love that girl.”
Surprised, Billy said, “Sir?”
“I never met her, but I love her. Like a daughter. I’ve learned so much about Judi Kesselman that I know her better than a lot of people who’ve actually in my life.”
“I see.”
“She was a wonderful young woman.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“I talked to so many of her friends and family. Not a bad word about her from anyone. The stories of things she did for others, her kindnesses… y know how sometimes a vie haunts you, how you can’t be entirely objective?”
“Sure,” Billy said.
“I’m haunted by this one,” Ozgard said. “She was a great letter writer. Once someone entered her life, she held on to them, she didn’t forget them, she stayed in touch. I read hundreds of Judi’s letters, Deputy Olsen, hundreds.”
“So you let her in.”
“You can’t help it with her, she walks right in. They were the letters of a woman who embraced people, who just gave her heart to everyone. Luminous letters.”
Billy found himself staring at the bullet hole in Lanny Olsen’s forehead. He looked toward the open door to the upstairs hall.
“We’ve got a situation here,” he said. “I can’t spell it out in detail at this time, because we’re still working the evidence and we aren’t ready to bring charges.”
“I understand,” Ozgard assured him.
“But there’s a name I want to run by you, see if it rings three cherries with you.”
“The hairs are up on the back of my neck,” Ozgard said. “That’s how bad I want this to be something.”
“I Googled our guy, and the only thing I got was this one hit regarding the Kesselman disappearance, and even that was less than nothing.”
“So Google me,” said Ozgard.
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“Steven Zillis.”
In Denver, Ramsey Ozgard let out his pent-up breath with a hiss.
“You remember him,” Billy said.
“Oh yeah.”
“He was a suspect?”
“Not officially.”
“But you personally felt…”
“He made me uneasy.”
“Why?”
Ozgard was silent. Then: “Even a man you wouldn’t want to share a beer with, wouldn’t want to shake hands with—his reputation isn’t to be taken lightly.”
“This is background, off the record,” Billy assured him. “You tell me as much as makes you comfortable and just how big a spoonful of salt I should take with it.”
“The thing is, for the entire day when Judi had to have been snatched—if she was snatched, and I believe she was—for that entire day, for the whole twenty-four-hour window and then some, Zillis had an alibi you couldn’t crack with a nuke.”
“You tried.”
