“I can’t do this for you, Lindsay. And if I did, whatever you found wouldn’t make it through arraignment. Look, I could try to cut a deal with them.”
“Jill. I’ve got a multiple-murder investigation.”
“Then if I were you, I’d try to apply some nonlegal pressure.” “You want to spell that out for me?” Jill snorted. “Last I checked, you still had a few friends in
the news media.…” “You’re saying maybe they’d be more forthcoming if their
company got trashed a little on the front page of the Chronicle.” “Duh, Linds …” I heard Jill giggle. All of a sudden a beep sounded on my cell phone. Cappy Thomas at the office. “Lieutenant, I need you back
at home base, posthaste. We got a line on the au pair.”
Chapter 19
Two women were sitting in Interrogation Room 1 when I got back. They owned a small placement service for nannies and au pairs, Cappy informed me. “A Nanny Is Love!”
“We called in when we heard about what happened,” Linda Cliborne, in a pink cashmere sweater, explained to me. “We placed Wendy Raymore in that job.”
“She seemed perfect for it,” her partner, Judith Hertan, jumped in. Judith took out a yellow file and pushed it across the table. Inside was a filled-out A Nanny Is Love! application form, a couple of letters of recommendation, a Cal-Berkeley student ID with a photo on it.
“The Lightowers adored her,” Linda said.
I stared at the small laminated photo of Wendy Raymore’s face. She was blond with high cheekbones, a wide, blossoming smile. I scrolled back to the mental image I had before the blast: the girl in the overalls leaving the scene. This could be her.
“We carefully screen all of our girls. Wendy seemed like a gem. She was cheerful and attractive, a totally likable kid.”
“And the Lightowers said their little baby had taken to her like honey,” her partner added. “We always check.”
“These recommendations … you checked them, too?”
Judith Hertan hesitated. “We may not have followed up on all of them. I did check with the school, made sure she was in good standing. We had her college ID, of course.”
I fixed on the address: 17 Pelican Drive. Across the bay in Berkeley.
“I think she said she lived off-campus,” Linda Cliborne said. “We mailed her confirmation to a post office box.”
I took Cappy and Jacobi outside the room. “I’ll alert the Berkeley PD. And Tracchio.”
“How do you want to handle it?” Cappy looked at me. What he meant was, What kind of force should we use to pick her up?
I stared at the photo.
“Use everything,” I said.
Chapter 20
Forty minutes later we were down the block from 17 Pelican Drive in Berkeley. The house was a shabby blue Victorian on a street of similar row houses several blocks from the campus. Two patrol cars had the street blocked off. A SWAT van pulled up alongside. I didn’t know what to expect, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
We all donned protective vests under our police jackets. It was 11:45. The Berkeley PD had the house under surveillance. They said no one had left, but a black girl carrying a Cal-Berkeley bag had gone in thirty minutes before.
“Let’s go find a missing baby,” I said to the guys.
Jacobi, Cappy, and I crept behind a line of parked cars close to the front of the house. No sign of activity inside. We knew the place could be booby-trapped.
Two inspectors sidled up to the front porch. A SWAT team guy waited with a ram in case we needed to break in. The
scene was eerily quiet.
I gave the nod. Let’s go in.
“Open up! San Francisco Police!” Cappy rapped heavily on the door.
My eyes were peeled to the side windows for any sign of activity. They had already used a bomb. I was sure there’d be no hesitation to opening up with guns. But there was nothing.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching from inside, the sound of a lock being turned. As the door swung open, we trained our guns on whoever was behind it.
The black girl in a Cal-Berkeley sweatshirt, whom the Berkeley cops had seen going in. One look at the SWAT team and she let out a startled scream.
“Wendy Raymore?” Cappy barked, yanking her out of the doorway.
The shocked girl could barely speak. Cappy threw her into the arms of a waiting SWAT team member. Trembling, she pointed to a staircase. “I think she’s up there.”
The three of us pushed our way inside. Two upstairs bedrooms were open and empty. No one inside. Down the hall, another door was closed.
Cappy rapped at the door. “Wendy Raymore? San Francisco Police!”
There was no answer.
The adrenaline was burning in my veins. Cappy looked at me and checked his gun. Jacobi readied himself. I nodded.
Cappy kicked open the door. We moved in, leveling guns around the room.
A girl in a T-shirt shot up in bed. She looked stunned, blinking sleep from her eyes. She started to shriek: “Oh, my
God, what’s going on?”
“Wendy Raymore?” Cappy kept his gun on her.
The girl’s face was white with terror, eyes going back and forth.
“Where’s the baby?” Cappy shouted.
This is all wrong! Fucking all wrong, I was thinking.
The girl had long dark hair and a swarthy complexion. She looked nothing like the description Dianne Aronoff had given us. Or the picture on Wendy Raymore’s student ID. Or the girl I saw hurrying away from the bombing. I thought I knew what had happened. This girl had probably lost her ID, or it had been stolen. But who had it now?
I put down my gun. We were staring at a different girl.
“This isn’t the au pair,” I said.
Chapter 21
Lucille Cleamons had exactly seventeen minutes left on her lunch hour to wipe the ketchup stain off Marcus’s face, get the twins to the day care clinic, and catch the 27 bus back to work before Mr. Darmon would start docking her $7.85 per hour (or 13 cents a minute).
“C’mon, Marcus,” she sighed to her five-year-old, who was sprouting a face full of ketchup. “I don’t have time for this today.” She dabbed at his white, collared dress shirt, which had taken on the look of one of his messier finger paintings, and—damn—none of the stain was coming off.
