Sydowski and Turgeon absorbed Ngen’s account.
“Did he get a license plate?”
The professor translated and the boy said something atlength, reaching for the star journal he kept, flipping through the pages.
He kept a journal? Sydowski couldn’t believe it.
At school they taught you to take license numbers ifyou ever saw anything bad. But he didn’t get the entire plate.
“The first three characters, B75,” the professortranslated.
“Was it a California plate?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of truck was it?”
Ngen didn’t know trucks.
“If we showed him pictures?” Turgeon asked, whiletaking notes.
The professor explained. Ngen nodded. “Yes, that wouldhelp.”
Sydowski wanted to know what kind of meat the man gavethe dog, and did Ngen see a store’s logo on any wrapping or packaging?
The professor translated. Ngen thought for a moment.It was hamburger in a white tray with transparent wrap.
“What sorts of things does Ngen write in his starjournal?”
The professor asked Ngen.
“Dates and times of everything he saw in the night.”
“Did Ngen make such notes the night he saw the mantake the dog?”
Yes, he did because it was so unusual.
“May we borrow the journal?” Turgeon asked.
The professor made the request. Ngen looked to Psoong,who nodded.
One more time, because this was so important, Sydowskiwanted to know what happened when the man approached the Nunns’ yard.
Ngen said the man threw some hamburger into the dog’skennel and the dog ate it without making a sound. Then the man opened the gateand the dog ate more from his hand. Then the man picked up the dog, took himunder his arm, and walked to his truck and drove off.
“Did the man throw the wrapper away?”
Ngen thought. Yes, he tossed it aside.
“Where?”
Somewhere in the alley near the yard.
“Again, what did it look like?”
The woman explained, then said something to Min, wholeft the room. She returned with three packs of frozen meat. Ngen touched apackage of sausages, packed on a white foam meat tray with clear plasticwrapping and a producer’s label with a bar code on one corner, with the date,weight, cost, and a product code.
Turgeon made notes. Sydowski reached for his radio andsummoned the head of the IDENT unit to Ngen’s room. The man arrived, his eyesdarting to the boy, the meat, Sydowski, then Turgeon.
“This is what we’re looking for, Carl,” Sydowski said.
Captain Carl Gray turned the package over in hishands.
“Sausages?”
“A meat tray and wrapper just like this one,” Turgeonsaid.
“The guy lured the dog away with wrapped hamburger,”Sydowski said. “If we could find the wrapping, label, and product code-“
“Right.” Gray came up to speed. “Then we could narrowwhere and when he bought it.” Gray reached for his radio. “I’ll call my teamfor a briefing. But it’ll be a needle in a haystack, Walt.”
“I know. It’s been nearly a month.”
Gray left, and while they thanked Ngen and his family,something ate at Sydowski, something he needed to know, so he told theprofessor to ask.
“Why didn’t you come forward yesterday?” the womansaid.
Ngen looked at Psoong, at Min, and the professor, whoimmediately knew the answer. They were scared.
Sydowski nodded.
Then Ngen looked directly at Sydowski and in a littleboy’s voice that was awash with emotion, spoke spontaneously, rapidly, forcingthe professor to struggle to keep up with him.
“They were scared that police would send them back,but he loved this country, it was his home and did not want to make troublebecause he knew that people who make trouble are punished. The day after thedog was taken, Ngen saw the little girl and how sad she was. He saw the signsin the neighborhood with the dog’s picture and heard her calling him everynight. He wanted to tell her that he saw a man steal her dog, but was afraid.”
Ngen began crying. Min comforted him.
“His heart ached for the little girl who loved her dogso much. Ngen knew what it was like to love someone and lose them. Now the girlis gone and he is terrified. It is all his fault. Had he spoken earlier, maybeshe would be safe. And now that he has spoken, maybe the kidnapper will comefor him? Please do not punish his family. He is sorry. Please forgive him!Please!”
The professor dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
Sydowski and Turgeon exchanged glances.
FORTY-SEVEN
By Monday afternoon, Reed was atop Russian Hill, approaching a Victorian mansionoverlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. A gabled roof topped its three stories,twin turrets, and colossal windows. The open front porch was edged with ornatespindled railing, and the clipped lawn was rimmed by a wrought-iron,spear-tipped fence.
Would he find answers here? Anything that would bringhim closer to Keller? So far, the house was the only lead he and Wilson came upwith after digging all Sunday and this morning. No matter what they tried,quietly using their sources in a number of agencies, scouring the Internet,they could not nail a good address for Keller. He was invisible.
Even Professor Martin provided little help.Coincidentally, she popped by the Star that morning to thank Reed overcoffee in the cafeteria for the feature on her group. Reed made time for herbecause he wanted to know more about Keller, but he was careful not to tell herabout his suspicions. And if Martin had any, she kept them to herself.
“Tom, I just wanted to thank you. After your articleran, we received pledges of support and calls from bereaved parents searchingfor help. I thought your reporting and writing was sensitive.”
“Don’t thank me. Say, what did Keller think?” Reed wascasual.
“I don’t know. He’s so private. Why do you ask?”
Reed shrugged. “No reason. I mean, he really didn’tlike me.”
She was wearing a summer dress and sandals. Almost nomakeup. She was attractive, Reed thought. “I’m glad you left him out of yourstory. He has a lot of pain to deal with right now.”
“Don’t we all Kate?”
Reed’s cell phone rang. He had to go.
Standing to leave, he asked Kate to put him in touchwith Keller again. He wanted to apologize. She would, only she did not have anumber or address for him. It was curious. Maybe she had taken his number downincorrectly, or there was a mix-up. Anyway, none of the others knew him or wherehe lived. And something strange had happened.
“He stopped coming to the sessions after you visitedthe group.”
“Really? It was because of me?”
“I don’t know. It could be a number of things. I mean,I don’t know much about him beyond his loss of his three children. And I amworried because the anniversary is coming up. I’ve been trying to find him. Ibelieve he gave me a phony number to protect his privacy. If I locate him, I’lllet him know you would like to see him again. I owe you.”
It was Molly Wilson who called Reed. She had triedfinding Keller’s wife, Joan Keller. Joan Webster, if she was using her maidenname. She checked the DMV, voters’ registration, everything she could think of.Nothing.
As for Keller, only a San Francisco post office boxand two other addresses surfaced from all their checking. One was for thebungalow that the Kellers’ rented for a couple of years in Oakland during thelate 1960’s. Wilson knocked on some doors, went through old directories, tryingto find old neighbors, see if Keller kept in touch with anybody. Nothing.
They were missing something obvious. What the hell wasit? Reed reflected, coming to the last address, their last hope for a lead: themansion on Russian Hill. He pushed opened the unlocked gate, entered the yard,and gazed at the house where Keller had lived with his wife and children twentyyears ago. Before their lives were destroyed.