As the day’s first light began to creep through the windows, though, she was starting to doubt herself. It had all felt so right. But she wasn’t finding anything. Becky Lone had just . . . disappeared.
And then, as she was on the verge of deciding she’d been wrong and was going to have to figure out a completely different approach, Livia found her.
She was called Rebecca MacKinnon now, married to William MacKinnon. Same class at Berkeley. MacKinnon had been a partner, now some kind of emeritus, at a big Bay Area law firm. They lived in San Francisco—Vallejo Street in Pacific Heights, a high-end neighborhood. Three children. Two small grandchildren. One of the children had a Facebook page with a photo of a birthday party—the baby, the parents, the grandparents. Livia saw the wide-set eyes of the grandmother and knew she was looking at Becky Lone. She looked up the woman’s mobile phone number and confirmed its current location. Pacific Heights. She was home. Probably still sleeping.
Her heart pounding, Livia started writing an email to Lieutenant Strangeland. She wasn’t going to make it to roll call this morning. It seemed she needed a personal day.
56—NOW
Livia arrived by taxi a block from the MacKinnons’ house at a little past noon after a nonstop from Seattle. She didn’t like Lyft and Uber. Whenever possible, she preferred not to leave a trail.
It was a postcard day in San Francisco—cool, clear, breezy, hard blue skies. She could smell star jasmine in the air, and it reminded her of college. She liked this city, and in fact had considered joining SFPD after graduating. But Seattle was her best route to Nason, and that had trumped everything.
She walked up Vallejo and stood for a moment in front of the house, the sun warm on her face. It was a relatively modest place for the neighborhood—on the small side, with a brown wood fa?ade, and a shingle roof rather than the tile of some of the enormous dwellings nearby. Unlike the Lone mansion in Llewellyn, it felt real—designed to be lived in, not to make a statement. Still, the back faced north, and would command spectacular views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the bay. This was no starter home.
She went through the gate, stepped under the archway, and rang the bell. She looked up and saw a security camera. Well, so much for not leaving a trail. Not that it mattered. She was only here to talk.
A moment later, the door opened. The woman in the Facebook photo—no question, Becky Lone, a.k.a. Rebecca MacKinnon. An attractive woman, mid-sixties, fit-looking, prosperous, well preserved. She had short gray hair and a minimum of makeup, and was dressed in a smart navy pantsuit. A lady who lunched, Livia thought. And maybe lunch was in fact where she was heading.
Beside MacKinnon was a large German shepherd. The animal neither barked nor growled. It simply remained still and watched Livia. It was obviously well trained, and intimidating in its calm watchfulness. Livia had the sense that if it hadn’t been for the dog, MacKinnon wouldn’t have opened the door, even though it was only a petite Asian woman in the security camera feed.
“Can I help you?” MacKinnon said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Livia said, holding out her badge. “My name is Livia Lone. I’m a sex crimes detective with Seattle PD.”
At the mention of Livia’s name, MacKinnon’s pupils dilated and her face paled. The dog remained silent, but seemed to tense slightly. Livia realized it would take no more than a word from MacKinnon and the animal would launch itself. She didn’t think it would come to that, but she ran a mental play of stepping offline and bringing out the Vaari from the side pocket of her cargo pants. She could deploy the blade faster than she could the Glock. Traveling as a cop had its advantages, among them being you didn’t have to disarm to get on a plane.
“I’m not here in any kind of official capacity,” Livia said, “but I’d be grateful if you could help me understand a few things.”
“I don’t . . . really know what I could help you with,” MacKinnon said, taking what looked like an unconscious step backward, her hand gripping the door.
“Becky,” Livia said evenly, “I think you do.”
At that, the dog growled.
The woman pursed her lips and slowly shook her head. Her knuckles whitening on the door, she said, “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“No. I’m sure you don’t. I’m sure you don’t want to talk to anyone. But your refusal to talk? Your refusal to say anything? It’s why your brother Fred was able to do to me the same things that happened to you. So I think you owe me that talk. I think you owe me at least that much.”
She wasn’t positive she was right. But MacKinnon’s behavior so far had strengthened her suspicions, and emboldened her to bluff. If she was right, it would be a powerful gambit—when a suspect became convinced the detective already knew much of what the suspect might say, the suspect became significantly more inclined to confess. Because what was the harm, anyway?