The priest was gasping, begging the killer tosurrender.
Florence was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Sydowski was certain they were hearing Tanita MarieDonner’s killer, because the killer was the only person who knew the detailsthe confessor was reciting. Sydowski listened with clinical detachment to therecounting of a two-year-old girl’s abduction, rape, murder, and disposal. Likethe missing pieces of a shattered glass doll, every aspect came together,matching the unknowns. This lead broke the case. But it came at a price. Thekiller’s reference to “the others” made him shudder. Did this guy killGabrielle Nunn and Danny Becker? What about the intercepted notes to thefamilies?
MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE.
MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO.
MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE.
Was it a countdown? Were they going to find morelittle corpses?
The images of Tanita Marie Donner whirled through him,her eyes, her empty beautiful eyes piercing him, boring through the years ofcynicism that had ossified into armor, touching him in a place he thought wasimpenetrable.
In death, she had become his child.
But sitting there in Florence Schafer’s living room,his face was a portrait of indifference, never flinching, never betraying hisbroken heart. Dealing with the dead taught you how to bury the things that keptyou alive. The tape ended.
“Florence, can you identify the man on this tape?” hesaid.
I know his name is Virgil. I don’t know his lastname.”
Turgeon was writing everything down.
“He has tattoos.” Florence touched her arms. “A snakeand flames. A white man, mid-forties, about six feet, medium build,salt-and-pepper beard, and bushy hair.”
“Where does he live?” Sydowski said.
“I don’t know.” Florence looked at Turgeon takingnotes, then at Sydowski. Realizing the gravity of her situation, she said,“Please, please, he must never know I’ve spoken to you. I’m afraid of him.”
“It will be okay, Florence,” Sydowski said. “Now, isthere anything else you can remember that will help us get in touch withVirgil? Where he goes, what he does, who he does it with?”
Florence blinked thoughtfully. “He comes to the churchalmost daily, to the shelter.”
“At the shelter, does he mention the children, DannyBecker, Gabrielle Nunn? Talk about the news, that kind of thing?”
“Oh no.”
“Is he friends with anyone at the shelter?”
“Not really. He keeps to himself.” Florence sniffed.“Inspector, what if he has the other children with him? I pray for them. Youhave to catch him before it’s too late. You have to catch him.” She squeezedher tissue. “I saw him at the shelter two days ago. He should be around againsoon.”
Sydowski touched Florence’s hand. “Calling us was theright thing to do.”
Florence nodded. She was terrified.
“You are a good detective, Florence,” he whispered.
A warm, calm sensation came over her. Her search forthe meaning and purpose of her life had ended.
Buster chirped.
“May I use your phone?”
FIFTY-TWO
Some twenty-five miles south of San Francisco along Highway 1, Reed pulled into HalfMoon Bay, a drowsy hamlet caressed by the sea and sheltered by rolling greenhills, where farmers harvested pumpkins, artichokes, and lettuce. A brochurefor heaven, Reed thought, stepping from his Comet at the marina, the gullsshrieking in the briny air.
He strolled the docks, showing photocopied clippingsof Keller’s tragedy to locals. They looked at them, then shrugged and scratchedtheir heads. It was a long time ago. Nobody was around then. After half anhour, he decided to try the local paper, when a young, tanned woman he hadtalked to earlier jogged up to him.
“Try Reimer,” she said.
“Who?”
“He’s a relic. Been here so long, he ran charter fordinosaurs. If anyone would remember that story, Reimer would.”
“Where do I find him?”
She glanced at her watch.
“Gloria’s on Main Street. Go there and ask for him.”
“Thanks.”
Reed was optimistic. He had to be on to something withKeller. His instincts kept nudging him to keep digging. Before coming to HalfMoon Bay, he had driven to Philo, where Keller’s wife, Joan, had grown up.After checking the old Keller mansion on Russian Hill and reading Joan’s diary,he figured it was a logical place to go. But no one he talked to in townremembered her and he didn’t have the time to dig further. While eating a clubsandwich at a Philo diner, it struck him that before heading for Half Moon Bay,he should stop at the cemetery. Maybe Joan was buried there.
The groundskeeper was a helpful gum-snappinguniversity student. He listened to Reed’s request, then invited him into theduty office. “Keller, Keller, Keller.” The student’s fingers skipped throughthe cards of the plot index box. Except for Nirvana throbbing from his CDheadset, it was quiet and soothingly cool. “All right.” He pulled a card,bobbing his head to his music and mumbling. “Section B, row two, plot eight. Farnorthwest edge, lots of shade.”
Keeping a vigil at the Keller gravesite was a hugewhite marble angel. Its face was a sculpture of compassion, its outstretchedwings protecting the polished granite headstone. Over Joan’s name and those ofher children Pierce, Alisha and Joshua, their birth and death dates, theepitaph read:
If angels fall,
I shall deliver them
And together we will
Ascend to Heaven
An icy shiver coiled up Reed’s spine. Inscribed nextto Joan and the children’s names was Edward Keller’s. His death date remainedopen. A fresh bunch of scarlet roses rested at the base of the headstone with anote reading: “Forever, love, Dad.”
Reed swallowed.
The ages of Danny Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Nunnmatched the ages of Joshua and Alisha Keller when they drowned.
Raphael and Gabriel were angel names.
If angels fall, I shall deliver them and togetherwe will ascend to Heaven.
This supported Molly’s theory. Had Keller carved hisplan in their headstone? Did Keller think Danny and Gabrielle were surrogateshe required for some twisted mission?
If he could just find Keller. Talk to him. Size up hisplace. He grabbed his cell phone and punched Molly Wilson’s extension in thenewsroom. He got her voice mail. He left a message.
They had to find Keller. And they didn’t have muchtime. Reed traced the gravesite roses to a Philo flower shop where Keller paidfor them. He was pulling up to Jack’s on Main Street in Half Moon Bay when hisphone rang. It was Wilson.
“Tommy, where the hell are you?”
“Half Moon Bay.” Trying to find a guy who may knowKeller. You have any luck locating Keller?”
“Zero. You’d better get back soon-something’s up onthe case.”
“What?”
“Nobody knows. It’s just the buzz going ‘round.”
“Okay. Listen, I’ve got a small lead on Keller. Hebought flowers a few weeks ago for his family plot in Philo. He bought themthrough Elegant Florists in San Francisco. See if you can get an address forhim from the shop. Do it now, we’ve got to find him.”
“Sure, Tom. But you’d better get back here at warpspeed. The boss is wondering what you’re up to and I don’t think I can coverfor you much longer.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Gloria’s was a postcard-perfect seaside diner.Red-checked gingham covered the tables; the aroma of home cooking filled theair. Only a handful of customers: two women, real estate agents judging fromtheir blazers, examined listings over coffee at one table; and a young coupleate hamburgers at another. Reed took the rumpled old salt, reading a newspaperalone at a window table, to be Reimer.
“Excuse me.” He stood before the man, keeping hisvoice low. “I’m looking for a gentleman named Reimer, who runs charter.”