Candy Lane was an unfortunately named fifteen-year-old who had been branded a chronic runaway. When she didn’t come home from school, Portland police hadn’t taken it seriously. Then Candy was found in a child molester’s basement, half dead, on a live Web cam. Several cops—including the chief of police—had turned in their badges over the case.
Now the locals might have screwed up again. But if Katie’s disappearance turned into another debacle, in this case there would be plenty of people to share the blame. And Nic could be first in line if she didn’t handle these people with kid gloves.
With her back pressed against the door, she was beginning to feel claustrophobic. “Perhaps we could sit down?”
Wayne blinked rapidly. “I’m forgetting my manners.”
The living room had cream-colored walls, a twelve-foot ceiling, and bay windows that bracketed a fireplace built of river rock. The furniture was either very good reproduction mission or the real thing. Nic took a seat on a chocolate brown leather armchair. As the Converses sat down on the opposite ends of a leather couch, she made a mental note of the distance between them. Some couples pulled together during a crisis, while others drew apart.
Nic pulled out her notebook and said, “You two have done a great job getting those signs up all over Portland.”
“It’s the kids from Lincoln,” Wayne said. “When they heard that Katie was missing, kids and their parents volunteered to put up signs as far south as Eugene and all the way up I-5 to Seattle. Tomorrow they’re holding a vigil at the high school.”
“What time will that be?” Nic would go, of course. It wasn’t unknown for the killer to join in the search. And later, to show up at the funeral.
“At 7:00 p.m.” Wayne’s voice broke. “People have been so generous. They’re donating food for the volunteers, putting up posters, passing out buttons, and contributing to the reward fund.”
From her briefcase, Nic took out a notebook and pen. Then she handed a sheaf of papers to Wayne. “This is a warrant for you to sign so we can get a trap and trace on Katie’s phone. Then the phone company can research which numbers have called her phone and any numbers she’s been calling.”
Without reading it, Wayne scribbled his name and handed the papers back. His eyes never left her face.
“Do you have caller ID at home?”
“I already looked,” Wayne said, following Nic’s train of thought. “No number on there that I didn’t recognize before she disappeared.”
“Then why don’t we start,” she said, “with you telling me a little bit more about your daughter.”
“We’ve been over this before.” Valerie sighed heavily. “More than once.”
“I know, I know, Mrs. Converse, and I appreciate that, but sometimes a fresh pair of eyes and ears can pick up something that has previously been missed.”
They painted a sweet, uncomplicated picture. Nic took notes, listening for what they didn’t say as well as what they did. At home, Katie was known as Katie-bird. She played the piano. She collected designer shoes and liked to draw. Her favorite movie was Legally Blonde, and her favorite color was purple. In February she would rejoin the rest of her junior class at Lincoln High.
“She’s a sprinter on the track team,” Wayne said. “She’s small but fast. She wouldn’t have been taken easily. If she wasn’t immobilized, she would have fought or run.”
“So what do you think happened?”
Nic watched him carefully. It wasn’t impossible that Wayne actually knew what had happened because he had done it. Even killers could break down in tears, not believing what they had done, not believing they couldn’t undo it. And people were much more likely to be harmed by a family member than by a stranger.
Wayne took a shuddering breath. “There must have been more than one of them. Maybe they had a van. And probably a gun.”
“What about her dog?” Nic asked. “Wouldn’t he have bitten anyone who tried to attack her?”
“Jalape?o?” Valerie snapped. “That dog is stupid. He’d be as likely to lick a kidnapper’s face as bite him.”
The local cops had put out a bulletin to the pound and all the shelters within a twenty-mile radius, but so far, nothing. The dog was chipped, which made the search easier. It would be hell if the family had to keep driving from shelter to shelter, looking at dogs that weren’t theirs. Of course, it would be far worse to hear that a body had been found—only to learn that it wasn’t your sister, your daughter, your wife.
“He’s really Whitney’s dog.” Wayne pushed himself off the couch and started pacing. “Now he’s gone, and Whitney has to endure not knowing where her sister or her dog is. I just hope they’re together. Then Katie wouldn’t be too lonely.”
Nic turned a page in her notebook. “Can you walk me through what she did that day up until the time she left with the dog?”
“You’re wasting time asking all this again,” Valerie snapped.
Wayne shot her an anxious glance.
“Precious minutes, precious hours. Why aren’t you out there finding the person who did it?” She covered her face with her hands.