Whenever I think back on that moment, I wish to God I’d done what Tawny was asking. I wish to God I’d listened and understood.
33
IT WAS ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT. I WOKE AGAIN AND AGAIN, each time tangled in the remains of some barely remembered dream.
When my clock radio kicked on, I groaned and squinted at the digits. Five-fifteen. Why had I set the alarm for five-fifteen?
I palmed the button.
Music continued.
Slowly, awareness.
I hadn’t set the alarm.
That wasn’t the alarm.
Throwing back the quilt, I bolted for my handbag.
Sunglasses. Wallet. Makeup. Checkbook. Calendar.
“Damn!”
Frustrated, I upended the purse and pulled my mobile from the heap.
The music stopped. The digital display told me I’d missed one call.
Who the hell would call at five in the morning?
Katy!
Heart racing, I hit LIST.
Anne’s cell phone number.
Ohmygod!
I hit OPTION, then CALL.
It was the same message I’d been hearing since Friday.
I clicked off and returned to the log. Today’s date—5:14:44 A.M.
The call had been dialed from Anne’s cell. But Anne’s cell wasn’t on.
What did that mean?
Anne had dialed, then turned her phone off? Her battery went dead? She moved out of range?
Someone else had used Anne’s phone? Who? Why?
Again scrolling through OPTIONS, I chose SEND MESSAGE, typed in “Call me!” and hit SEND.
I punched another number. Tom answered after four rings, sounding groggy.
Anne was not there. He hadn’t heard a word, nor had any of the friends he’d contacted.
I threw the phone at my pillow. Normally, I leave the phone on my bedstand at night, but the stress of events had broken that routine. I’d left the damn thing in my purse. Make one small mistake and it nails you.
Sleep was out of the question. I showered, fed Birdie, and left for the lab.
Ryan entered my office at a little past eight.
“Claudel won the lottery.”
I looked up.
“The prints taken from the fake Stephen Menard belong to a loser named Neal Wesley Catts.”
“Who is he?”
“Street corner thug. Drifter. Did one bump for peddling weed. That’s how his prints got into the system. California’s faxing his sheet.”
“Claudel’s following up?”
“He intends to know every toilet this punk ever flushed.”
“Take a look at this.” I tapped my pencil on Claudel’s MP list.
Ryan circled to my side of the desk.
“I’ve marked the possibles.”
Ryan scanned the names I’d checked. It was the majority of the list.
“The nonwhites are out.”
“And those who were too old or too tall when they disappeared.”
