and opened the same box the boy had just checked minutes ago. She took out a couple of envelopes, then tucked them into her purse. When she turned, Sara gasped, even though she should not have been surprised.
'Is that Dottie Weaver?' Sara asked, but she knew that it was. There was no mistaking the woman on screen for anyone else. Then, as if she knew that they would one day be watching her, Dottie lifted up her sunglasses, stared right into the camera, and raised her middle finger at them.
Jeffrey paused the tape.
'Where was everybody?' Sara demanded, sitting up on the edge of the couch. 'Where was the tail?'
'They followed the boy,' Jeffrey told her. 'Nick found a bunch of junk mail on him. The credit cards were left in the box.'
'She can't possibly use them,' Sara countered, still incredulous. 'As soon as the numbers come up in the computer, they'll know where she is.'
'She knows that,' Jeffrey assured her. 'She gave you and Lena all those clues when you interviewed her. It's all a game. She's just fucking with us.'
'Why?'
'Because she can,' he said caustically. 'God damn her.'
Sara put her hand on his shoulder. 'Jeff.' She tried to help, pointing out, 'Dave Fine will never get out of jail. Lacey is home. Grace is dead.'
'Don't comfort me, Sara,' he said, his voice tight in his throat. 'Please.'
She dropped her hand, and he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
Jeffrey said, 'She's out there, Sara. She's out there doing this again.'
'Someone will catch her,' Sara told him, but she wasn't sure of this herself. Jeffrey must have sensed the hesitancy in her tone, because he turned to look at her. There was so much pain in his eyes that Sara had to look away.
Sara stared instead at the television, at Dottie Weaver telling them in no uncertain terms that she was not only free from the law, she was free to do whatever she wanted to children like Mark and Lacey Patterson. She was probably doing it right now.
'How could this happen?' Sara asked, but there was no answer to the question. She thought of Lacey, and what the child had been through, and the things that Lacey had experienced but was still incapable of talking about. The thirteen-year-old girl had been through more pain and suffering than anyone should be expected to bear, yet she was still getting up for school in the mornings, going to church with her father on Sundays, as if she were still a child, and not aged by circumstance.
Jeffrey sat back on the couch, taking Sara's hand in his, holding it too tight. They sat like that, neither of them talking, both of them incapable of expressing how they felt, until Cathy stood at the top of the stairs and called them up for dinner.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First thanks as always goes to my agent, Victoria Sanders. It would take three people to fill her shoes. Meaghan Dowling, my editor at Morrow, gave me focus and spot-on advice. Kate Elton at Century was great help as well. The marketing and publicity people at Morrow and Century have been fabulous. Juliette Shapland is worth her weight in Tim Tarns.
Medical information again came from Michael A. Rolnick, M.D., and Carol Barbier Rolnick. Captain Jo Ann Cain fielded procedural questions. Ric Brandt offered firearms advice. Melissa Cary told me how to snake a drain. Jatha Slaughter answered my drug questions with honesty and aplomb. Fellow authors Jane Haddam, Keith Snyder, Ellen Conford, and Eileen Moushey were there for moral support. Writer Sal Towse walked with me across the Golden Gate Bridge, an experience I will never forget. Laura 'Slim' Lippman was a good sounding board. Any mistakes I've made are entirely her own.
My daddy has been a constant support throughout my life and I feel lucky to have him. Judy Jordan is a cherished friend. As for D.A.-whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.
I will always owe a debt of gratitude to Billie Bennett Ward, my ninth-grade English teacher. I am just one of the few people I know who owe their careers if not their lives to a teacher. They should all be praised for the good they do.
Lastly, thanks to the little scamps who go over the posted thirty-minute time limit at my local Y; I have conjured many a violent murder waiting in line for a treadmill.
