“At least a week,” she said. “If you have the willpower.”
“So how’s the second week going for you?”
“Not so good. I foolishly got a job here.” She started to turn away, then hesitated, turning back. “I forgot to ask. What can I get you to drink?”
Eve smiled at her. “That’s not what you really want to ask me. You’re wondering, How did she know I’ve only been here a week?” The waitress looked past Eve to the two police officers sitting behind her at the other table. Both of them were looking at her. “And why are those two cops, who come in here all the time, staring at me when they haven’t paid any attention to me before?”
She looked at Eve, really looked at her this time. “You’re from Los Angeles?”
“Calabasas.” Eve took out her badge-wallet and flashed it for her. “Detective Eve Ronin, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.”
Sherry Simms sat down at the table, resigned to her fate. “How did you find me? I tossed my phone and my computer. I’ve stayed off the grid and completely out of touch with everyone I’ve ever known. I’ve paid cash for everything and only stayed in towns I’ve never been to before.”
“Your Mustang ratted you out.”
“I’ve changed the license plates a dozen times.”
“But it’s the same car,” Eve said.
“There are thousands of Mustangs out there just like it.”
“When you bought the car, you registered for the FordPass app, though you’ve never used it. It’s really handy. It can tell you where your car is parked if you forget, or it can tell the police where you are if they’re looking for you.”
Eve held up her phone, opened the FordPass app, and showed her the map display with the pinpoint where Sherry’s car was parked. The idea of using the app occurred to Eve the morning after the pet cemetery shooting.
Sherry sighed. “There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.”
“Certainly not where you’re going to be for the next few years.”
“Am I allowed a last meal?”
Eve passed her the laminated menu. “Would you like to join me for chicken and waffles?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Sherry used the menu to flag down a passing waitress. “Hey, Molly, can we please get two number ones and two ice teas? Thanks.” She looked at Eve again, ignoring the confused expression on Molly’s face. “I can’t believe you came all this way just for me. Selling stolen goods isn’t that big of a crime.”
“You’re the only one involved who is still alive,” Eve said. That news shook Sherry, making her left eyelid twitch. “Grayson Mumford and Michael Green are dead now, too.”
“Who killed who?”
“Grayson killed Green. I killed Grayson.”
Eve hadn’t thought a lot about Mumford over the last few days, but she couldn’t stop thinking about his sister, who’d been so eager to have her picture taken with her, the woman who’d soon kill her brother. That thought haunted Eve when she had time to think, which she tried hard not to have.
“I’ve never met a killer before,” Sherry said.
“How do you know?”
“Why bother coming for me?”
It wasn’t a bother. It was a requirement.
“Somebody has to be punished.”
The waitress studied her face. “I think it will be both of us.”
Eve was afraid that Sherry might be right. Her phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen. It was a text from Linwood Taggert.
Ronin is a go. We sold the TV series.
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
This book was inspired by a fetal abduction case I learned about at a homicide investigators’ training conference for law enforcement professionals. I am grateful to Jason Weber, the public safety training coordinator at Northeast Wisconsin Technical College in Green Bay, for the opportunity to attend the conference.
Danielle R. Galien, an associate professor of criminal justice at Des Moines Area Community College and a fifteen-year veteran crime scene investigator with the Des Moines Police Department, attended the same conference I did, was familiar with the case, and gave me an enormous amount of help.
I am also indebted to Pamela Sokolik-Putnam, a supervising deputy coroner investigator for the San Bernardino County Sheriff-Coroner Department, for sharing her experience and advice.
I owe special thanks to retired cops Paul Bishop, Robin Burcell, and David Putnam for letting me hit them up with procedural questions at all hours of the day and night.
Eve Ronin’s continuing adventures exist because of the enthusiasm, insight, and support of my editors Gracie Doyle, Megha Parekh, and Charlotte Herscher, the marketing brilliance of Dennelle Catlett and Megan Beatie, and the negotiating finesse of Amy Tannenbaum.
Finally, the city of Calabasas, California, is a real place, and many of the locations that appear in this book, like the Lost Hills sheriff’s station, the Hilton Garden Inn, and the Commons shopping center, actually exist but the events and characters I’ve described are entirely fictional. I’ve also taken some creative liberties with geography, police procedure, and other inconvenient aspects of reality that got in the way of telling my story.