knew that even a junior sociopath like she presumed he was would betray his feelings. Provided he had any. She’d done some background work on the boy-abandoned by his mother, being raised by an insufferable blowhard father- and she almost felt sorry for him. But if he had anything to do with Emma Rose’s disappearance, any sympathy she had would be gone. Right then everything was about trying to find the missing girl, hoping that she would be alive.
Hoping that she wasn’t the victim of a serial killer.
The screen showed the mostly empty parking lot. A few carts. A few cars. Then a figure of a young woman appeared. She was small, lithe. She started from the direction of the Starbucks and moved across the screen toward the transit stop.
“That’s Emma,” he said. “Quality sucks, but that’s her. She practically skips when she’s in a hurry.”
Alex kept his eyes riveted to the plasma. Grace kept her eyes on Alex.
Emma turned around and started talking to someone in the direction of the Starbucks. The angle was so poor it was hard to tell if she was angry, laughing, or what. Her shoulders moved rapidly and one hand flew up in the air. But it was hard to say if it was a gesture of recognition or one meant to rebuff someone.
Like the potential stalker former boyfriend across the table from her.
“Do you know who she’s talking to?” she asked Alex directly.
“How would I know?” he said.
Paul had been itching to move the needle. All this making nice, all this respect for the rich judge with the rich client, was turning his stomach.
“You weren’t there that night?” he asked.
Before Alex had the chance to answer, Judge Weber put his fingers to his lips and the teen clammed up.
The judge didn’t say anything, but it was clear to both detectives that he saw what they hadn’t noticed at first, second, and fifteenth view of the tape-the car.
“This interview is over,” he said, his eyes meeting Grace’s with a cold, decisive stare.
“Do you drive your dad’s car?” Paul asked.
Judge Weber stood up, pulling his client to his feet and pushing him toward the door. “Don’t answer, Alex. We’re done now.” Before exiting the interview room he turned to Grace.
“I always thought you were one of the good ones,” he said. “Guess there really aren’t any more of those around here, are there?”
“Glad to know you’re able to double dip. Must be nice to get a pension and have a job at the same time,” Paul said.
The judge smiled. It was a cold smile, the kind meant to punish or humiliate rather than charm.
“Yeah, it is. And yes, I make a lot of money. Good-bye, Detectives Alexander and Bateman. Rotary at noon. I enjoy being a part of my community. You know, because I can afford to.”
Paul turned to Grace.
“Jesus, I don’t know who’s more of a prick-the judge, the kid, or his dad.”
“Did you have to piss him off?” Grace asked.
Paul glowered. “Did you have to be so respectful?”
“Don’t go there,” Grace said, frustrated by the whole situation. “I’m not the one with a thick Internal Affairs file.”
“Low blow. But so what? Did you see the look on the judge’s face when he saw the car?”
“Oh yeah. Let’s name him.”
“Suspect?”
“Person of interest. Let’s rattle the Mortons’ gilded cage a little and see what falls out.”
CHAPTER 37
Jeremy Howell was six when his mother, Peggy, told him who his father was. Peggy would later say she held off for years because her son was too young to completely understand. It wasn’t that she thought the boy was dumb. Far from it. After all, how could he be anything but brilliant? Indeed, there was no arguing that Jeremy was smarter than the average second grader at Geiger Elementary-the same school his father attended when growing up in Tacoma. Jeremy had been reading at the fourth-grade level and could recite all fifty states and their capital cities-something that Peggy was sure was nothing short of genius.
Peggy, her son, Jeremy, and daughter, Cecilia, were living in her late mother’s house on Ruby Street back then. She told people she was a widow whenever they asked about Jeremy’s father. Most assumed the boy’s dad had been killed in a car accident or maybe in combat in the Army or Air Force. With a pair of military bases nearby, it was easy to allow people to think whatever they needed to believe.
Peggy could never tell anyone that he’d died in the electric chair.
Jeremy was watching a Superman cartoon when Peggy decided the time was right. She went over to the set and turned off the sound.
“Hey, Mommy, I was watching that,” the boy said.
“I know. But what I have to tell you is more important than a cartoon.”
He looked at her, studying her face for some kind of hint about what could be more important than what he was doing at the moment of her unwanted interruption. He didn’t like it when his mother talked to him like that, as if she knew what was best for him. He knew best all by himself. He looked back at the silent TV as Superman went after Lex Luthor.
“Jeremy,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa-the sole piece of furniture in the front room. “Your daddy was a very important, famous man.”
This seemed to interest Jeremy and he turned his attention away from the silent TV to his mother.
“Who?” he asked.
Peggy wanted this particular disclosure to go perfectly. She’d planned it over the past several nights as she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling and conjuring the words that would not scare, but make him understand the importance of what she was imparting.
“I will tell you,” she began. “But I want you to know something first.” She waited for him to acknowledge the meaning of her caveat, and the six-year-old nodded slightly.
“What, Mommy?” he asked, using the “mommy” word because he knew that she liked it when he did so.
Peggy looked serious. “This is very important. Remember when I told you that sometimes people hate other people for no reason.”
“Like you hated your mom?”
Peggy shook her head. “I had reason. No, I mean, like sometimes people get the wrong idea about someone and they just decide that hating is better than understanding.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Your daddy was accused of doing bad, bad things. He did not do them. He was not a bad man, but a lot of people thought he was.”
“What did they think he did that was so bad? Was he in jail?”
Peggy nodded. “Yes, he was in jail. They said that he did terrible things.”
“But what terrible things?”
Peggy swallowed, this was the hard part. He’d been raised in a world that condemned evil. Horror and shock were the routine responses to murder. Repulsion, too. “They said he killed someone.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened as he took in that bit of information. “Who did they say he killed?”
“Some girls. Some girls.”
Jeremy pushed his mother to be as direct as she could.
“Did he kill them?” he asked.
Peggy shook her head with exaggerated vehemence and patted him gently on one knee. The boy recoiled a little; his mother’s touch was a rarity and he didn’t always like it when she tried to show any affection. Affection seemed foreign and uncomfortable.
“No, son,” she finally said, “he did not. He absolutely did not. He never should have been in prison. Not for
