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How the hell could they connect the murder to the baby?

  Axel shut the door to his workroom, where he devoured every word, exercising self-control until the part about the plate forced him to sit up.

  The license plate?

  Jesus.

  The pages rustled as he tossed them aside and tromped across the yard to the garage. What the hell happened? The license plate was linked to the homicide? How? His keys jingled as he worked one into the case-hardened steel lock to the garage.

  Dust specks swirled in the light spilling through the gaps of the rickety wooden walls as he raised the huge canvas cover at the van’s rear. Bending his knees, he squatted to examine the license plate.

  Reality hit him like a blow to his stomach.

  He didn’t recognize this Washington State plate. It was not the good plate—the safe plate—that his friend had given him when he first got the van. He looked toward the house.

  What the hell did Nadine do?

  He snapped the canvas back. More dust swirled, forcing him to spit and blame himself for not checking the plate after Nadine had grabbed the kid. How could he be so sloppy?

  How could she be so stupid?

  He returned to the house seething. What the hell did Nadine do? He had to work faster to end this. It couldn’t go on like this. The heat was now so intense it was burning him up. At any moment the police would be at the door. They were coming. He could feel it.

  His pulse thumping, he returned to his desk, firing up his computer, going online, searching for the answers, for the solution that would save him. He needed a little more time to pull this off.

  Nadine’s humming floated from down the hall in the baby’s room.

  And there she went again. Humming.

  She’s insane.

  Her humming mocked him. He’d paid an enormous price to salvage what was left of his sorry life and that psycho bitch was destroying him.

  Humming while she did it.

  Just keep humming, darlin’. Axel’s going to fix everything just right, you’ll see. He looked toward the closet where he’d hidden her white sneakers and other things.

  Just wait.

  He turned up the volume on the small TV in his office. Channel 77’s Live Scene Team had a breaking news bulletin. A woman’s face appeared on the screen. Looked like a driver’s license photo. Details were in the ticker crawling across the bottom of the screen. North Seattle Homicide Victim Identified as Beth Ann Bannon.

  “Chuck Lopez reporting for Channel 77’s Live Scene Team.”

  Beth Bannon? Who was that? He didn’t know a Beth Bannon.

  A knock sounded on his door. Nadine was standing there, holding Dylan Colson in her arms.

  “Hi, honey. Oh, look. See, daddy’s working hard.”

  Concern creased Axel’s face as he eyed the TV, then Nadine.

  “We’re sorry to disturb your work.” Her attention swept his desk, his computer, newspapers, and notes. He glared at her as she held her thumb and forefinger close together. “We just have one teeny tiny question.”

  He waited for it.

  “When are we going to leave, Ax? I’m packing some things and was curious. Are you close to finishing your big deal thingy?”

  His breathing came harder, flaring his nostrils.

  “We’re all really excited to get to our new—”

  “Nadine,” he cut her off. “Who’s Beth Bannon?”

  “Who?”

  He indicated the TV with the victim’s picture filling the screen.

  “Her?” Nadine shifted the baby in her arms, her attention razor-sharp, eyes going to the TV then to Axel’s computer, resuming her subtle inventory of his work. “She’s just another liar. A real bad one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Axel, I don’t want to talk about it. Not in front of our baby.”

  He was trying to consider what he should do here when his computer beeped. He had a new e-mail, but he ignored it for now.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Axel. How much longer?”

  “Not long.”

  “Good. I believe you. I know you love me. I know you’re going to keep your promise and take us far away to start our new happy life. Because you’d never lie to me. Right?”

  “Sure, babe.”

  Nadine smiled.

  “I’ll let you read your e-mail and get back to work.” She closed the door.

  Alone again, he opened his e-mail. It was long and detailed. Reading it, his stomach lifted. It was exactly what he needed to know. And there was more.

  A phone number. But it was bear-trapped. Coded. Meaning he had to adjust each digit in a certain direction to decipher the true number. Starting with the area code.

  This was good.

  If he hurried he could pull this off.

  42

  The Malibu’s V-6 growled as Grace wheeled it from the support building’s lot on Airport Way.

  After assessing Kay Cataldo’s discovery, it took Grace and Perelli about one second to take their next step.

  Confront Lee Colson.

  Dark clouds had rolled in from the Pacific as the Chevy cut across Seattle heading for the hospital in Ballard. Perelli’s nose was in the file Cataldo had flagged and copied for them. “It ain’t looking good, Grade.” Perelli closed the folder to stare at the traffic and trouble ahead. “Not one bit.”

  Grace admitted that the new evidence had hardened her attitude toward Lee Colson. But it was inevitable. As with most homicides, the whole story never emerged at the outset. Nobody ever told the truth the first time. Cases were never as simple as they are on TV. There were always complications.

  She glanced at the skyline, gleaming against the silver-gray clouds, letting go of the thread of optimism she’d held for this case. Guess she was wrong to think this one would somehow be different, just because a baby was involved. Taking stock of the city she asked herself the same question she’d asked every fifteen seconds.

  Where’s Dylan?

  At the hospital they badged their way up to the intensive care unit. Maria Colson’s condition was deteriorating, Agnes Filby, the detective who was keeping vigil for a declaration, informed Grace.

  The duty nurse directed them to the hospital chapel, where Colson’s relatives were clustered in the hall.

  “Lee’s inside talking to Father Orsen. He needs time alone with him.”

  “We need to talk to Lee now,” Grace said.

  The colors from the stained glass window were vivid and in sharp contrast to the somber air, redolent with the scent of candle wax and the wood polish used on the oak pews. Colson, his head bowed, was nodding as the priest spoke softly, stopping when the detectives interrupted them.

  “Excuse us, Father.” Perelli displayed his ID. “We need a moment alone with Lee.”

  Anticipating the worst for Colson, the priest stood.

  “Perhaps I should stay, for Lee’s benefit?”

  Perelli gave his head a small shake, telegraphing that no, they hadn’t found Dylan. “It’s not like that.” Perelli held up the file.

  “We just need a few minutes,” Grace said.

  Father Orsen nodded, touching Colson’s shoulder.

  “I’ll just be outside with your family, Lee.”

  Grace waited until they heard the soft bump of the chapel door, then began flipping through her notebook.

  “Did you find my son?”

  “No, Lee, everyone’s doing all they can.”

  “I think I’m going to lose my wife.” Colson cupped his face in his hands.

  Perelli and Grace exchanged glances. This had to be done.

  “Lee, we need to be certain about some things relating to Beth Bannon and need your help. Do you think you can help us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Perelli placed a large color photocopy of Bannon’s driver’s license photo on the pew, the same picture released to the press that morning.

  “Do you know her?”

  “No. I already told y
ou.”

  “Is it possible that you may have met her in some capacity?”

  Colson shook his head.

  “What about the location of the homicide on Brimerley Lane in North Seattle? Do you know the address, or would you have had reason to ever be in the neighborhood?”

  Perelli placed a photocopied page of a Seattle city map on the pew.

  “I know the city, I’ve never been there. I don’t know anyone there.”

  Grace looked at Perelli, then at Colson.

  “Lee, look at me and think about your answer. Again, do you know Beth Bannon, or the address?”

  Colson’s whiskered face tightened with worry lines. He glared at both detectives, his eyes rimmed red with anguish.

  “For the last goddammed time, I told you, no! Now why the hell are you asking me these questions when you should be out there looking for my son?”

  The chapel door cracked and one of Colson’s uncles stuck his head in. Perelli raised his hand, signaling the relative to back off.

  The door closed.

  “Lower your voice,” Grace said. “We’re going to show you something.”

  Perelli placed an enlarged photocopy of the reverse image of the envelope, with the evidence inventory and case number along the bottom.

  “Tell us about this, Lee. It’s your name, your home address, and a personal note about a payment.”

  Colson stared at it, blinking, thinking. He looked at Grace, then Perelli, as if expecting them to provide an answer.

  “We found this in Bannon’s house, Lee,” Grace said, “so I’m going to ask you again: do you know Beth Bannon?”

  Colson swallowed hard.

  43

  Across the city from where Grace and Perelli were questioning Lee Colson, Washington State Patrol criminalist Jim Wood was processing the 1998 Toyota Corolla from the murder scene.

  The car was clean and Wood started wrapping up his work with a sense of defeat because he’d failed to extract a single piece of helpful evidence, other than the fact that someone had removed the plates.

  Big deal. We already knew that from that reporter from the Mirror.

  It was when Wood came to the last items on his list that he hit on something. He was helping Kay Cataldo’s crew at the Airport Way facility and like everyone else assigned to the Colson case, he’d been going full bore.

  But he’d taken Dylan Colson’s abduction personally, because he and his wife, Ruth, just had their first child six months ago. Wood took the long hours in stride. He was used to functioning on little sleep, just like he’d gotten used to the whine of the jetliners landing and taking off next door at Sea-Tac International. Actually, he was deaf to them as he worked on the Toyota, a process that had started at the scene and continued when the car was moved to the garage.

  At Brimerley Lane, Wood had followed his meticulous routine. He’d examined the Toyota in the scene environment, then covered the car, had it placed on a flatbed and transferred to the garage at Airport Way, where he processed it for any fingerprints, hair, fiber, trace.

  He’d started with the usual areas inside, like the door handles, rearview mirror, seat-belt buckles, windows, dash. For the exterior, he processed the gas door, gas cap, trunk, windows, hood, support posts, wheel wells.

  Through his efforts, Wood pulled usable latents, but after quick examination, eliminated them.

  They belonged to Beth Bannon and Dorothy Mae Hall.

  Frustrated, Wood went a step further. Something he’d learned from working cases with border agents. He put the car up on the hoist and examined its undercarriage, beginning with the bumpers.

  That’s when he got a hit.

  A combination of patent and molded prints in the grime of the inner front bumper, protected from the elements, from car washes, rain, and wear. They were new, not among the elimination set for the Bannon homicide.

  “What do you think, Kay?” Wood stood over her shoulder.

  Cataldo blinked at the large flat-screen monitor displaying magnified prints. She studied the arches, whorls, and loops and confirmed what she’d suspected. Nothing fit with the elimination set from the Bannon garage scene, the kitchen, or the Ravenna location. Yet they were familiar. She went to a different computer drive.

  Wood’s eyes widened as he recognized the file of elimination prints taken from the Colson home in Ballard. Cataldo’s monitor displayed a split screen, enlarging a print from Ballard and the new print from the car. Automatically, Wood and Cataldo, expert analysts, began comparing all the minutiae points.

  They quickly began counting up the clear points of comparison where the two samples matched. Most courts required ten to fifteen clear point matches.

  In no time at all, Cataldo had jotted down twelve and was still counting, knowing that one divergent point instantly eliminated a print. By the time she’d compared the left slanting patterns from the last finger, they were up to nineteen clear points of comparison.

  It was a match.

  “Your print on the car belongs to Lee Colson,” she said.

  “Wow. And the hits just keep on coming.”

  Cataldo considered the mounting evidence.

  “Lee’s envelope is in Beth Bannon’s house. His prints are on her car.” Cataldo shook her head. “Lee, Lee, Lee, what the heck is going on?”

  She reached for her phone to make a call.

  She knew Grace’s number by heart.

  44

  Grace found Lee Colson’s face in the rearview mirror as the Malibu’s wipers slapped against the drizzle. She and Perelli were taking him to headquarters.

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this, now,” Colson said to the mirror. “Tell me, what’s going on? You found my son. That’s the truth, isn’t it? You didn’t want to tell me back there, you need me to ident—”

  Grace watched a rivulet meander frantically down the wind-shield before the wipers got it.

  “No, we’re still looking for Dylan. It’s just that we have a few new things we need to be clear on.”

  “What new things? Tell me! Did you find my son?”

  She didn’t turn her head.

  “It’s best we talk downtown.”

  Colson’s distraught face betrayed little, Grace thought, stealing glimpses of it as she drove, not sure what to think of him since taking Kay Cataldo’s second call. The fact was, hard evidence was mounting against him, forcing Grace to suspect that maybe Colson had been playing everyone. Part of her didn’t believe it.

  The rest of the ride was subdued, aside from the rhythmic beating of the wipers and the hiss of the Chevy’s tires.

  No one spoke at headquarters as the elevator ascended to the Homicide Unit on the seventh floor, where Grace led Colson into an interview room.

  It was stark and smelled as if something stale had refused to leave. One of the chalk-colored cinder-block walls held a window with mirrored glass that reflected the barren table, metal chairs, and Lee Colson’s haggard face when he sat down.

  “Coffee?”

  He shrugged.

  A moment later, she set down a mug with the phrase “Nothing but the truth—the whole truth” engraved on it. A long-standing joke from a long-retired old-school detective. “Sets the tone nicely far our guests, don’t ya think?”

  FBI Special Agent Kirk Dupree entered; a chair scraped on the floor as he turned it, sat on it backward, rolled up his sleeves, nodded at Colson. Perelli’s shadow crossed over them as he entered, slapped a file on the table, and sat down. Colson took stock of the faces eyeing him, as the small room seemed to swell. Perelli removed Beth Bannon’s color blow-up from her driver’s license and spun it around for Colson.

  “Let’s start from square one again. Do you know this woman?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever met her, or do you think Maria might have met her in some capacity?” Grace asked.

  “If she did, I’m not sure she would’ve told me. How would we know this woman?”

  “That’s what
we need to clarify.”

  Perelli slid CSI’s color enlargement of the envelope impression before Colson. “What’s this personal note doing at the location where Beth Bannon was murdered, huh? ‘Follow up with payment.’ Payment for what, Lee?”

  Colson stared at it, then shook his head.

  “I told you I just don’t know.”

  Next, Perelli displayed a photo spread of the 1998 Toyota Corolla.

  “This car familiar to you?”

  Colson shrugged.

  “I’m a tow truck operator, thousands of cars and trucks are familiar to me.”

  Perelli then slid an enlarged photo of the car’s front bumper, showing the shadow impression of where the plate was.

  “You see here, the plate’s missing. You know from the news stories the plate from this car, from the Bannon residence, was identified as being on the van we suspect was used in Dylan’s abduction. You follow me?”

  Colson nodded.

  “What we want you to tell us is how this is all connected to you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Grace studied Colson’s body language, his facial expressions, his breathing, how he focused his eyes, the frequency of lip licking, swallowing, every muscle tic and twitch.

  Dupree eyed Colson clinically as Perelli rolled his sleeves up, revealing a series of tattoos from his time in USMC. “Semper Fi” blazed from his forearm.

  “This is the time to tell us what you know, Lee,” Perelli said. “What happened with Beth Bannon? And are there other people involved?”

  “God, I don’t know.”

  With crack-whip speed Perelli’s hand slapped down hard on the table, making Colson flinch.

  “You’re lying!”

  Perelli then displayed half a dozen graphic photos of Bannon’s corpse splayed on the kitchen floor. Streams of dried blood oozed in all directions, intestines appeared as if they’d exploded from her stomach. Colson shut his eyes and turned away.

  “Were you banging her?” Dupree asked.

  “What?”

  “Were you screwing Beth Bannon?”

  “I don’t even know her, I swear.”

  “How does she fit into this?”