The 6th Target

'It's a neurological condition,' Henry Tyler said impatiently. 'It has nothing to do with her abduction. This has got to be about money. What else could it be?'

'What can you tell us about Paola?' I asked.

'She spoke excellent English,' Tyler said. 'She's been with us only a couple of months. When was it, sweetie?'

'September. Right after Mala went home to Sri Lanka. Paola was highly recommended,' Mrs. Tyler said. 'And Maddy took to her instantly.'

'Do you know any of Paola's friends?'

'No,' Mrs. Tyler told us. 'She wasn't allowed to bring anyone to the house. She had Thursdays and Sunday afternoons off, and what she did on those days, I'm sorry, we really don't know.'

'She was always on her cell phone,' Tyler said. ' Madison told me that. So she had to have friends. What are you suggesting, Inspector? You think she was behind this?'

'Does that seem possible to you?'

'Sure,' said Tyler. 'She saw how we live. Maybe she wanted some of this for herself. Or maybe some guy she was seeing put her up to it.'

'Right now, we can't rule anything out,' I said.

'Whatever it takes, whoever did it,' Henry Tyler said, his wife starting to break down beside him, 'just please find our little girl.'

Chapter 35

PAOLA RICCI'S ROOM in the Tylers ' house was compact and feminine. A poster of an Italian soccer team was on the wall opposite her bed, and over the headboard was a hand-carved crucifix.

There were three main doors in the small room, one leading out to the hallway, one opening into a bathroom, and another that connected to Madison 's room.

Paola's bed was made up with a blue chenille spread, and her clothes hung neatly in her closet – tasteful jumpers and plain skirts and blouses and a shelf of sweaters in neutral colors. A few pairs of flat-soled shoes were lined up on the floor, and a black leather bag hung from the knob of the closet door.

I opened Paola's handbag, went through her wallet.

According to her driver's license, Paola was nineteen years old.

'She's five nine, brown haired, blue eyed – and she likes her weed.'

I waggled the baggie with three joints I'd found in a zipper pocket. 'But there's no cell phone here, Richie. She must've taken it with her.'

I opened one of the drawers in Paola's dresser while Conklin tossed the vanity.

Paola had white cotton workaday underwear, and she also had her days-off satin lingerie in tropical colors.

'A little bit naughty,' I said, 'a little bit nice.'

I went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet. Saw her various lotions and potions for clear skin and split ends, and an opened box of Ortho Tri-Cyclen, the patch for birth control.

Who was she sleeping with?

A boyfriend? Henry Tyler?

It wouldn't be the first time a nanny had gotten involved with the man of the house. Was something twisted going on? An affair gone wrong?

'Here's something, Lieu,' Conklin called out. 'I mean, Sarge.' I stepped back into the bedroom.

'If you can't call me Boxer,' I said, 'try Lindsay.'

'Okay,' he said, his handsome face lighting up with a grin. 'Lindsay. Paola keeps a diary.'

Chapter 36

AS CONKLIN WENT TO SEARCH Madison 's room, I skimmed the nanny's diary.

Paola wrote in beautiful script, using symbols and emoticons to punctuate her exclamatory writing style.

Even a cursory look through the pages told me that Paola Ricci loved America.

She raved about the cafes and shops on Fillmore Street, saying she couldn't wait for nicer weather so that she and her friends could sit outside like she did at home.

She went on for pages about outfits she'd seen in shop windows, and she quoted her San Francisco friends on men, clothes, and media stars.

When mentioning her friends, Paola used only their initials, leading me to guess that she was smoking pot with ME and LK on her nanny's nights out.

I looked for references to Henry Tyler, and Paola referred to him infrequently, but when she did, she called him 'Mr. B.'

However, she embellished the initial of someone she called 'G.'

Paola reported charged looks and sightings of 'G,' but I got the clear impression that whoever he was, she was more anticipating having sex with 'G' than actually having it.

The person mentioned most often in Paola's diary was Maddy. That's where I really saw Paola's love for the child. She'd even pasted some of Madison 's drawings and poems onto the pages.

I read nothing about plans, assignations, or vengeance.

I closed Paola's little red book, thinking it was the journal of an innocent abroad.

Or maybe she'd planted this diary to make us think so.

Henry Tyler followed Conklin and me out to the front step. He grabbed my arm.

'I appreciate your downplaying this for my wife, but I understand why you're here. Something may have already happened to my daughter. Please, keep me up to date on everything. And I insist that you tell me the truth.'

I gave the distraught Henry Tyler my cell phone number and promised to check in often during the day. Techs were wiring up the Tylers ' phone lines, and inspectors from the Major Crimes Squad were canvassing the houses on Washington Street when Conklin and I left.

We drove to Alta Plaza Park, a historic, terraced gem of a place with breathtaking views.

Along with the nannies and toddlers and dog owners recreating within the park's tranquil greens were cops doing interviews.

Conklin and I joined the canvass, and between us all, we talked to every nanny and child who knew Madison, including one nanny with the initials ME, the friend Paola had mentioned in her diary.

Madeline Ellis broke into tears, telling us about her fear for Paola and Maddy.

'It's like everything I know has been turned upside down,' she said. 'This place is supposed to be safe!'

Madeline rocked the carriage with a baby inside, her voice choking as she said, 'She's a nice girl. And she's very young for her age.'

She told us that the 'G' in Paola's diary was George, last name unknown, a waiter at the Rhapsody Cafe. He had flirted with Paola, and she with him – but Madeline was positive that Paola and George had never had a date.

We found George Henley working the tables outside the Rhapsody Cafe on Fillmore, and we questioned him. We drilled him, tried to scare him, but my instincts told me he wasn't involved in a kidnapping or a murder.

He was a kid, just a regular kid, working his way through night school, trying to get his degree in fine arts.

George wiped his hands on his apron, took Paola's driver's license from my hand, looked at her picture.

'Oh, sure. I've seen her around here with her girlfriends,' he said. 'But until this minute, I never knew her name.'