“Your dad’s been through a lot, Rachel. He’ll get through this.”
“It’s not just Dad. I heard about that altar, off Castle Road in Bartholomew Park. And about the doll in Hilldale’s vineyard.” She lowered her voice. “And I heard about that animal… how somebody planted it at Alex’s. What the hell’s going on?”
“How did you hear?”
“We hear everything that goes on in the valley, Dan, you know that.”
He understood the first two, because the wine community was as close knit as it was competitive. Information, especially juicy rumors, spread faster than a wildfire in the High Sierras.
But Alex was most certainly not hooked into the local grapevine.
“But who’d you hear it from?” he pressed.
“Clark.” She searched his gaze. “Why?”
“How news spreads interests me, that’s all.”
She didn’t believe him. He saw it by the speculative gleam in her eyes. He also knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t hesitate to throw her cousin under a bus if the opportunity presented itself.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, answering her original question. “But I will. I promise you that.”
He watched her as she walked back to the interview room, thinking of his promise, wondering if he would be able to keep it.
Reed gathered together the photographs. He instructed Harlan to take a seat, then laid them out.
Harlan stared at them, throat working. He grasped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. Seconds ticked past. No one spoke. Harlan seemed not to even breathe as he gazed at the images, his expression twisted with pain.
“It’s him,” he said finally, the sound broken. “It’s my baby. My Dylan.”
“How can you be so certain, Harlan?” Reed asked as gently as possible.
“A father knows his own son.”
Reed glanced at Treven’s stunned expression, then at Rachel’s horrified one, before turning back to Harlan. “I hate to do this to you, but look again. It’s been years, these remains are-”
“I know my own son! My Dylan… my sweet, sweet boy.”
He broke down sobbing. Rachel put her arms around him, her own tears flowing.
Reed collected the photographs. “We’re trying to establish if there’s any viable DNA-”
“We’ll pay for any tests,” Treven offered, “if that will give us the proof-”
Harlan turned on him. “What more proof do you need? I was his father. I know my son!”
“This is too important to make a mistake on. What if you’re wrong and he’s not dead? What if he’s-”
“Uncle Treven,” Rachel said sharply, “that’s enough! I’m taking Dad home.”
He went with her without resistance. As soon as the interview room door had shut behind them, Treven turned to Reed. “I don’t care what it costs, we need proof that’s Dylan.”
“I understand completely, Treven. But it simply may not be possible.”
“Nothing is impossible. That’s been my lifelong credo. There must be something you can do.”
Reed thought a moment. “We could turn the skull over to a forensic sculptor. The re-creations can be uncanny. However-”
“Yes, let’s do it.”
“However,” he continued, “the best reconstructions are still generalized, and baby skulls are exceptionally difficult because the facial features aren’t fully formed yet. Our best bet is still DNA, if we’re able.”
“I want it all, every test. We’ll pay.”
“I appreciate that. But at this point, it’s not about money.”
“It’s always about money,” he said. “My brother needs closure. If this will give it to him, I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen.”
“Harlan expressed conviction,” Reed said softly. “It seems to me that it’s you who needs the closure, Treven.”
“My brother’s an emotional mess. I think we can agree on that. An hour from now, he’ll be doubting himself. You wait and see.”
Reed thought of Rachel, her pain. And then of Alex. Her mother. The entire community. Closure, he thought. A funeral. A way for the family to move completely past this.
“I’ll see what I can do. There are procedures that need to be followed.”
“Harlan ID’d him. So the remains are ours now. Isn’t that the way it works?”
“It’s not that simple. Or that immediate.”
“I’m Treven Sommer. I can make it simple.”
Reed held on to his temper by reminding himself of what this family had endured. “The remains cannot be released to you or anybody else until forensic testing is complete. When that’s happened, I’ll see what I can do.”
Reed could see Treven wasn’t happy with his answer. Obviously, when you were Treven Sommer, you weren’t accustomed to waiting.
“All right, Dan. But just so you know, I’m prepared to sue the department if it comes to it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tuesday, March 9
4:00 P.M.
The jewelry designer Alex had been pointed toward lived in a California-style cottage on Brockman Lane right here in Sonoma. He had agreed to meet her and take a look at her mother’s ring.
He came to the door, a charming gnome of a man in a red plaid flannel shirt and pants held up by suspenders. “Max?” she asked.
He broke into a broad smile. “You must be Alexandra. Come in… come in.”
She followed him into the cottage. She found it as charming and unique as the man, filled with all sorts of art, from traditional to contemporary. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Max. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“Nonsense. I have lots of time. Too much.” He motioned her to follow him. “I don’t get many visitors. And certainly not ones wanting to talk about my designs. That was a lifetime ago. Come, I’ve made us some tea.”
In the kitchen, Alex watched as he set about pouring. She noticed that his hands shook badly.
“Would you mind?” he asked, indicating the full cups.
“Not at all.” She carried them both to the small kitchen table, then went back for the milk and sugar. They both sat.
While she doctored her tea, he talked. “When my friend Janice called me about you, I was delighted. As you can see, I can’t design anymore.” He looked at his shaking hands. “I used to do such delicate work.”
“I’m sorry. That must be very distressing for you.”
“You would think.” He chuckled. “But God has surely blessed me. Talent and success as a young man and an old age surrounded by love. May I show you something?”
He was obviously not in a hurry to get to the reason for her visit, which suited her fine. She stood and let him lead her to the center hallway, which was decorated with framed photographs. She smiled as he pointed out himself as a young man and commented on a picture of his late wife, calling her the love of his life.
He stopped on a family portrait. “My daughter, Angie, and her three girls. How could I complain?”
“They’re a lovely family.”
He gazed at it. “In the end, it’s all about family. That’s all we have that means anything.”
His words hit her hard. She struggled to keep it from showing, but lost the battle.
“I’ve upset you,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I lost my mother recently. And she was… it’s been difficult.”
He patted her hand. “Tell me about the piece you brought me.”
“It was my mother’s.” Alex slid it off her finger and handed it to him. “I found it in her things after she died. It’s so unusual, I wondered-”
“It’s not mine,” he said curtly.
“Excuse me?”
He handed it back. “It’s not one of my designs.”
“Oh.” Confused by his change in tone, she wasn’t certain how to respond. “Is there anything you can tell me about the design or materials?”