*
The clock in the conference room at the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office is typical of government clocks, meaning it’s round, it ticks loudly, it has a black plastic case and a white face, and it can intermittently disrupt the space-time continuum to turn minutes into hours and hours into days. Just ask anyone who’s spent an hour at the Department of Motor Vehicles and they’ll tell you about the year they spent in hell.
It’s the clocks.
That same torturous monotony is upon us now as we wait for Diane’s call. Minutes drag. Seconds announce themselves over and over again, thumping their chests arrogantly: tick—I’m special—tick—I’m special—tick—I’m special.
Time is either your enemy or your friend.
Today it’s the enemy.
Jimmy has his hands folded in his lap and his forehead resting on the edge of the table. He’s not sleeping, though; his eyes are wide open and I can see them darting about as if he sees the case before him upon the floor, the pieces laid out from end to end.
This is the worst part: the waiting.
There’s so much we could be doing right now, but most of it involves being on the road and chasing down leads. The envelope changed all that, at least temporarily. And so we wait for a call from Diane, a call that will launch us into … what?
Another clue leading nowhere?
Another shaken and shattered family?
Another crime scene?
“Come on, Diane,” I breathe at the clock, my voice barely a whisper. She said an hour; it’s been an hour and a half.
“She’s not a miracle worker,” Jimmy says softly, as if reading my mind.
“Yes, she is.”
“The picture was closely cropped with no caption, no date, no text, nothing; just the girl. That’s not a lot to work with.”
“The backside had part of an advertisement with most of a phone number,” I persist. “If she can figure out what business it belongs to, she’ll be able to find out what paper they advertised in, and when.”
“I’m sure she’s doing exactly that,” Jimmy replies. His eyes are closed now.
The clock from hell tick-tick-ticks from its perch on the wall as it eats another twenty minutes in small bites.
When the phone rings, Jimmy and I leap to our feet as one.
“You’re on speaker,” Jimmy says simply.
“Susan Ault out of Chico,” Diane says flatly. “She was featured in the Chico Enterprise-Record just last week after she opened her third nail salon. I just called Chico PD and they’re sending someone to her house. You should hear from them shortly.”
“Good work, Diane,” Jimmy says with a sigh.
“Really good work,” I echo.
The phone is silent for a long minute, so long that I think we’ve been disconnected, then, as if from some hollow place where every word is a struggle, Diane’s voice crackles from the cheap speaker.
“Save her,” is all she says, then there’s a click and the line drops off.
*
Les and Marty set Betsy down on the main runway of the Chico Municipal Airport less than twenty minutes later, and a white Ford Explorer driven by Sergeant Eddie Cooper of the Chico PD is parked on the tarmac waiting for us.
Introductions are polite but short out of necessity and we’re soon rolling down the road on the way to 437 Hollow Wood Drive.
“We have units en route to each of her nail salons, and one to her kids’ day care,” Eddie recites. “Still no answer at the house.”
“What do you mean, no answer?” Jimmy turns almost completely sideways in the front passenger seat. “They haven’t made entry yet?”
“I think they’re waiting for you,” the sergeant says sheepishly. “We don’t have probable cause to breach the—”
“I told your captain this woman is in serious danger!” Jimmy interrupts. “I made it clear we’re dealing with a serial killer. What are they waiting for?”
Waving his right hand up and down the way you would urge an unruly dog to sit, Cooper says, “I’m on your side, trust me, but we lost a one-point-two-million-dollar lawsuit three months ago for a similar entry, and the powers that be are a bit gun-shy. That’s money the city can’t spare, and it cost us two commissioned positions.”
“Unbelievable,” Jimmy says, pressing both hands into his head as if trying to keep his cranium from exploding. “Let’s just get there.”
Hollow Wood Drive is a quiet, tree-lined road that pours smoothly off West Sacramento Avenue and winds its way to the east, then to the west, before reaching a large cul-de-sac at the dead end.
Susan Ault’s rambler sits on a small lot in the northeast corner of the cul-de-sac. Only a few years old, the house still looks crisp and new, with a wall of river rock and elaborate windows covering the left front of the house and cement-board siding painted moss green and trimmed in cream with just the slightest hint of olive covering the rest.
“Nice place,” I say as we exit the SUV. My eyes walk around the neighborhood, taking in the six homes in the cul-de-sac, with their big windows facing the road and their small trees. “Hard to get in and out without being seen,” I observe.
“Yeah,” Jimmy agrees. “Not too many places to hide. Let’s take a look around back.”
As we step onto the driveway and make for the house, a rather large Chico police officer at the corner of the garage spies us. Despite Sergeant Cooper’s presence beside us, he comes barreling down the driveway with both hands held up in front of him yelling something incoherent. I can only make out the words back, stop, and donut—though I might be mistaken about the donut part.