scratchy ones. She decided to put her sleeping bag on top of the bedspread. At least it was something familiar.
She got her drawing pad and colored pencils, as well as a flashlight she had found downstairs, and climbed into bed. She began writing her letter.
Dear Ms. Kelly,
I am Carla Ives’s sister. Please tell her we are at 14 Cold Creek Road in the San Bernardino Mountains. I think the nearest city is Big Bear Lake. We are at Cleo Fletcher’s house.
Thank you.
Yours truly,
Genie
P.S. Tell her I miss her a lot.
She heard the front door open and hurriedly turned out the light. She hid the drawing pad and the pencils and flashlight beneath the new clothes in Carrie’s duffel bag and quietly got back into bed.
She pretended to be asleep when her dad opened the door to her bedroom. She heard a strange metallic sound.
“Cleo, wait!” Dad whispered from the doorway.
“What the hell is that on the pillow next to her?” Cleo whispered back.
“A doll,” he said in a low and shaky voice. “Just a doll.” He paused. “I think she misses Carrie. Please, put the knife away.”
“I was only going to protect her,” Cleo said.
“I know,” he said soothingly. “I know. You’re taking care of all of us.”
Genie heard him close the door and walk toward the mirrored room. Cleo’s footsteps were much softer, but they followed his.
Genie pulled the doll closer. She fell asleep whispering the words “Six Hundred Broadway, Las Piernas, California” over and over to the doll, because, according to a little piece of newsprint she had memorized this morning, that was the address for the Las Piernas News Express.
CHAPTER 51
Tuesday, May 2
10:30 P.M.
LAS PIERNAS
QUESTIONS abounded. Whenever one question about the Fletchers seemed resolved, ten more took its place.
We thought we knew who was missing from the house in Huntington Beach, until the Huntington Beach Police Department released photos of Roy Fletcher and his children. They discovered Roy’s digital camera, and fortunately, the last few photographs had not yet been deleted from its memory. The police blanketed the media with them.
After seeing the photos, it seemed likely that the only person in the Roy Fletcher family who was using his or her legal name was Roy himself.
A hunch I had based on the story Reggie Faroe’s mother had told me led to a check of Arizona records. They showed that Roy’s late wife, Bonnie, had legally married Roy there under her real name but apparently she stopped using it from then on. Now the fact that her previous boyfriend, Reggie Faroe, was found dead at the base of a cliff seemed even more suspicious. The man she ran off with died in the desert, her name changed, and she acquired not only her own daughter but also three other children.
Bonnie’s body had been left in another desert, and although the circumstances strongly suggested Giles or Cleo had killed her, it was not clear that she had been murdered-even an autopsy might not be conclusive about whether she fell or was pushed down those stairs. Toxicology tests would take six weeks or more, but Carrie’s account indicated that Bonnie might have been drugged by Roy, another factor to be considered. Fingerprints, DNA, and firearms evidence had been collected from the desert scene and the bullet-riddled van-the fingerprints found in the BMW would be sent through IAFIS, the FBI fingerprint system; DNA would be compared to DNA found in the shoe left in Sheila Dolson’s backyard; the bullets would be compared to the one that killed her.
Reed told me that Sheila’s DNA had matched that on the cigarettes found at the scene of Gerry Serre’s burial on the Sheffield Estate. That meant she had at least been present when he was buried.
“Does any of the DNA on the cigarettes you found out there come from anyone else?” I asked.
“No. All Sheila’s. Which make us think she could have carried this out alone. We’re going to try to figure out if she dated Gerry Serre before he died. We’re a long way from being certain she’s the one who murdered him.”
The news stories about the children hadn’t yet aired on television when I talked to him. Once they did, local police departments began to take a different view of Roy Fletcher.
I saw the photos of the children Roy was calling his own while I was in the newsroom working with Mark on the last few details of his story on the ongoing investigation into the Roy Fletcher family. I had already turned in a first-person account-from that point on, I was off the story as a reporter.
Frank was sitting next to me, off duty from all roles other than protective husband. I have accepted the fact that he can’t help himself when it comes to that one, and would be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate it that evening. John Walters is fond of telling me that he doesn’t want me to bring cops into his newsroom, but in truth, he likes Frank and enjoys talking to him. Over time he’s learned that I didn’t marry “Frank Harriman, Police Spy.” Despite the evidence, Frank’s employers still suspect he married “Irene Kelly, Newspaper Spy.”
John told me he had uploaded the photos and sent them to my terminal. I was exhausted, really ready to go home, but my curiosity overcame all of that. I saw a photo of a boy, captioned as Troy Fletcher. Cute kid, but not one I recognized. The next one, labeled Aaron Fletcher, made me sit bolt upright.
“My God-it’s Luke Serre.”
“Luke Serre?” John said, as he crossed the room toward my desk. “The murdered man?”
“No, that was Gerry Serre. This is his son. Didn’t you recognize him?” I called up the photos Jane Serre had given me a few days ago, when I interviewed her after her ex-husband’s body was found on the Sheffield Estate. I placed the photo of the boy now going by the name of Aaron Fletcher next to the most recent photo she had given me of her son.
Only two years had gone by, and while Luke had gone from toddler to little boy in that time, the likeness was unmistakable.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Frank said.
“Better call your friends about it,” John said, but Frank already had his cell phone in hand and was calling Reed Collins.
“Two of those four kids were kidnapped from Las Piernas,” John said, and barked for Mark not to go home.
My phone rang. It was Caleb, calling from our house. He had stopped by earlier in the evening to visit Ethan. Ben was there, too-he had stopped by to work with Altair, and ended up waiting with Caleb and Ethan for word about my adventures in the high desert. Since I had to go to work before coming home, they ordered pizza and kept Ethan company.
“On the news!” Caleb said. “The younger girl-she’s my sister!” He had just seen the photos on television. As he spoke to me, I pulled up the image of Genie Fletcher and agreed I could see a strong resemblance to him. He told me he was certain Genie Fletcher was Jenny.
“I don’t want to create false hope,” I said. “And you’ve done enough work in your field to know one photo isn’t enough to make anyone certain of an identification.”
“You sound like Ben,” he complained.
“Ben’s right. I don’t know if Genie Fletcher is your sister, but you and your mom may want to talk to Detective Joe Travers of the Huntington Beach police. Do you think your mom is still awake? Maybe you should call her.”
