left messy or if he tossed it. We’re hoping for prints, of course.”
“I know this is a long shot, but do you have any idea what he took from the room?”
“Something that could fit into a student backpack?” Ramirez snorted. “Sorry, Chief. Could be almost anything. Was your girl into drugs?”
“Not that we know,” he said. “Was there anything pregnancy-related there?”
“Yeah, there was, as a matter of fact. Couple of books stashed under the bed.
Russ looked at his watch. Christ, it was after twelve. He was going to have to switch shifts with Lyle MacAuley. No way he could be working this case and still be alert enough to pull Friday night patrol tomorrow. He told Detective Ramirez the station’s fax number, thanked her for her help, and hung up.
In the living room, Kristen was sitting quietly, her head dropped back against the top of her flowery love seat, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Clare, in the bamboo chair next to her, looked up as he walked in. She asked a question with her eyebrows.
He shrugged. “Someone showed up at Katie’s house tonight claiming to be her father. He took something out of her room in a knapsack. One of her housemates was there, she’s talking to a police artist right now, trying to give us a description.”
Clare glanced at Kristen, who didn’t move. “Any chance it was Darrell?” she asked.
“Doesn’t sound it. Supposedly an older man with a mustache. I’m not discounting the idea that it might have been a disguise.”
Clare looked skeptical. “Who the heck could it be? Ethan? He’s in jail.”
“Kristen,” he said, then again, louder, “Kristen?” She rolled her head to face him without stirring from her position on the love seat. “I’ve asked you this before, but was there anyone else your sister might have been seeing? Maybe an older man?”
“I told you,” she said, her voice raw and tired. “If she was seeing someone else, she never let on to me.”
He glanced over to Clare. “The detective in Albany asked if Katie might have been into drugs. Maybe we’re on the wrong track, thinking her murder had something to do with the baby. Maybe she got on the wrong side of some bad people.”
Clare opened her mouth to respond, but she was cut off by Kristen. “My sister didn’t do drugs! Or kiddie porn or illegal adoptions or passing bad checks or anything else! She was a good person. A good person! If you weren’t such a cluck-ass small town cop you might have caught the man who did this to her by now!” She lurched upright in the middle of her tirade and stood pointing a shaking finger at Russ.
“Kristen!” Clare jumped to her feet. “That’s not fair.”
Kristen jerked her head around to face the priest. “What do you know about it! My sister is dead! And the best this guy can do is come here and ask me if I know any reason why she might deserve it? Oh, and by the way, did you kill your father tonight? Well, Chief Van Alstyne,” she made his name an insult, “if my sister’s murder didn’t have anything to do with her baby, maybe some nut case is out to kill off all the McWhorters! Who’s gonna be next? Me? Cody?”
“That’s enough, Kristen.” Clare’s voice cut through the air like a helicopter blade, sharp and no-nonsense. “You’re exhausted and upset and not thinking.” She moved to the door, pulling her coat off the rack and finding her boots with her feet, her eyes never leaving the angry young woman twisting her hands back and forth in front of the loveseat. “You call me tomorrow if you want any help with the arrangements.”
She waved a hand at Russ, who was still standing, stocking-footed and wool-headed, in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He switched into motion, getting his coat and boots while Clare continued. “Chief Van Alstyne will let you know as soon as he finds out anything about the murders.” She laid her hands on Kristen’s shoulders and shook her once, like a mother cat settling a kitten. “In the meanwhile, I want you to get yourself something hot to drink and go straight to bed. Try to get a good night’s sleep and make sure you eat something in the morning. You have my number.” Kristen nodded. “Then we’ll say good night.” Her voice softened. “I’m sorry, Kristen. About everything.” Clare opened the door and jerked her head at Russ. “Time to go.” He kept himself from saying, “Ma’am, yes ma’am,” but he hustled out the door just the same.
“Good night, Kristen. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She shut the town house door and hunched her shoulders against the pelting snow, high-stepping past him to the truck in a futile effort to keep her boots from getting even more wet. She was inside, brushing off her jacket, by the time he climbed up into the cab, wincing a little at the ache in his hip. Definitely too long a day. He fired up the engine and sat for a moment, too wiped out to shift into gear and begin the long, slow ride back home. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. Back to the rectory, that was. Had to take Clare home first. On the radio, a psychiatrist was incredulously quizzing her caller who had fallen in love with her sister’s husband. “Reality Check!” Dr. Adele barked like a drill instructor.
He smiled as he reversed out of the parking space, his four-wheel drive chugging against the accumulated snow. “So you really were an officer,” he said.
“Sorry if I rolled over you in there, but I—”
“No, no, I appreciate it, really. I never know the right way to handle these scenes. Try to comfort someone and you’re just as likely to get an ashtray over the head. Hang tough and be professional, and next thing you know you’ve got a reputation as a heartless monster or worse, there’s a suit for police brutality on your desk.”
“Mmmm.” She turned her face away from him and leaned against the window.
He concentrated on the road, turning the defroster on full to clear the steam from his windshield. The snow came at him horizontally as he drove, as if nature were trying to sandblast his truck with the icy flakes. Traction was bad, even with his weight and the four-wheel drive. It had been a hell of a night. Thank god he hadn’t let Clare drive home in that ridiculous little mosquito of hers.
Between the roar of the heater and the annoying jingle for an auto dealership on the radio—“Fort Henry Ford for Quick Credit Cash Back Cars!”—he missed the first two or three muffled gulps from the other side of the cab. He risked taking his eyes off the road for a moment. Clare was twisted so he couldn’t see her face, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. He heard her again, the sound of something noisy being swallowed.
