“Sure,” I say with a laugh. “What was that ‘other one’ that Genna was talking about?”
Jimmy looks surprised. “I didn’t tell you about that?”
I shake my head.
“I had to have,” he says, a perplexed look on his face. Then, in an instant, the lines on his forehead relax. “That’s right,” he says, smacking my left arm—I’ve been smitten—“we were on vacation … I can’t believe I didn’t tell you.”
“You still haven’t.”
Jimmy grins. “Last summer Derek was complaining of hot flashes. Mind you, this was Texas in the middle of summer—I think hot flashes go with the territory. After doing some research online, he was absolutely convinced that he had menopause.”
“Oh, no,” I say, laughing. Then, in the next moment, my mouth drops open. “And you convinced Genna to take him to the doctor for it?”
Jimmy’s shoulders are doing the laughing dance again.
*
Thirty minutes later, Jimmy’s good humor is gone.
“Stop doing that!” he snaps, his voice strained, edgy. The command center is empty but for the two of us. Occasionally a Shasta County deputy will come in to drop something off or pick something up, but mostly they stay clear. They can sense the frustration, the anger.
I’ve been checking Susan’s social media for the last hour, checking her friends list against registered sex offenders and looking for any odd or out-of-place comments. Susan has both a personal profile as well as a business profile, though most of the activity appears to be on her personal page.
She’s an attractive woman.
Her various online photo albums contain more than three hundred images; more than half are of Sarah.
Pulling Lauren Brouwer’s necklace from my shirt pocket, I look at it quickly and then return it.
“Will you please stop doing that?” Jimmy scolds. “You’re becoming obsessed.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You can.”
“No, I can’t. Think about it, Jimmy. He’s got two of them now; he never keeps two at a time, not for very long anyway. We’re running out of time.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the pulsing locket, shoving it toward him. “This is all I’ve got. As long as it keeps—” I gasp and jerk my hand back, as if bitten. The locket tumbles to the floor.
Jimmy’s on his feet. He can’t see the shine, but he knows.
Lauren Brouwer just died.
I was holding her heart in my hand.
*
Walt bursts into the conference room like a whirlwind of energy, waving a thumb drive in the air as he turns on the computer connected to the large flat-screen monitor on the wall. He doesn’t seem to notice the dejected look on my face, or Jimmy at the table with his head in his hands.
It’s good he doesn’t notice.
It would be hard to explain.
“Susan Ault had a surveillance system installed in her home just two days ago. According to her neighbor, Mrs. Eden, she had the feeling that someone was watching her, and at one point thought someone might have been in the house.”
Walt plugs the thumb drive into the computer and opens a file named Ault. “Butte County detectives noticed the cameras while processing the scene and found the recorder on one of the shelves below the TV in Susan’s bedroom. They just e-mailed a short video taken before the abduction, which shows a truck pulling into the driveway and then quickly leaving—maybe scared off by the motion-activated lights.” He hits play, and the thirty-three-second video begins to run.
The time stamp reads 11:27 P.M. and the video is dark. There’s no activity for a second or two, then a white work truck with a black decal on the door pulls into the parking pad. Its headlights wash out the camera for a moment, but then they’re switched off and the camera refocuses. In the glow from the motion-activated light above the garage door, you can clearly see the Ford emblem in the truck’s grille. What’s more, you can read the license plate.
“Steven Paul Swanson,” Walt says, pointing at the plate. “He lives here in Redding and owns an extermination business.”
“Any history?”
“We’re working that right now.”
Jimmy retrieves his cell phone and hits speed dial. “Diane, I have a name for you: Steven Paul Swanson, DOB—” he turns away from the phone. “Walt, do you have his date of birth?”
“Five/twenty-seven/sixty-five.”
“Did you catch that, Diane…? No. May twenty-seventh, 1965 … Right … Will do. Call me as soon as you have something.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
July 5, 3:47 P.M.
“Just let me go ring the doorbell,” I plead with Walt. “I’ll take some candy bars and pretend I’m raising funds for a mission to Haiti, or orphans in Bali.”
“It’s not my call, Steps.” The sheriff is just as frustrated as I am and my pestering isn’t improving his mood, but I can’t help it. “Redding PD is geared up and prepositioned to hit the house in five minutes,” Walt adds. “I’ve talked to Sheriff Mendall in Butte County till I’m red in the face and he won’t back off. He’s putting pressure on Redding PD to hit the house now.”
“But the chance of Swanson being Sad Face is minimal at best. He doesn’t have any criminal history, he has a happy marriage from all appearances, and three teenage boys at home. He sings in the church choir, for crying out loud—he’s a choirboy. That’s so ridiculously innocent that it’s … well … it’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve got nothing to give them except your hunch.”
“Sad Face doesn’t use his own truck. Period. It’s not just a hunch.” Jimmy puts his hand on my shoulder and I realize my voice has risen considerably.
Walt drops his head in defeat. “I know, Steps. I know. But there’s nothing I can do. It’s out of my jurisdiction. Mendall’s getting a lot of pressure from his county council. Susan’s a rising star in the local business community and there are a lot of pissed-off people down there demanding action.”
“Even if it’s the wrong action?” Jimmy says softly.
Walt nods. “Even if it’s the wrong action.”