She resented that most. Sergeant Caldwell had been almost a god around here! Now everyone who’d lived in his shadow was creeping out to whine, “He wasn’t that great.” Once, he’d been admired for clinging so tenaciously to this case, for insisting that Julie Lofgren not be forgotten. Now, they called it obsession?
They walked into the station side by side, still not speaking. Ann plopped in her chair, her jaw clenched so hard her teeth squeaked.
“I have some phone calls to make,” Diaz said. “About the Berg case.”
She nodded without looking at him. She heard the unspoken part of what he was saying, too: we have other cases. She knew they did! She was working on them, too. But this one mattered! It was the last thing she could do for her father. Her last chance to…
Ann jerked. She glanced around to be sure she hadn’t made a sound. Other detectives were on the phone or awkwardly hammering on keyboards. Nobody was paying any attention to her.
Warily, as if she were easing into a dark warehouse where she knew a hostage was being held, Ann circled back.
Her last chance to make her daddy proud.
That’s what she’d been thinking. But Daddy was dead and she’d never know if he was proud no matter what accomplishments she bragged about to his headstone.
She frowned at her heaped desk. Still, this case did matter. For his sake to start with, but now because…well, because it was a puzzle. She liked puzzles; she was good at them. She’d become interested in the people, in the mystery, in knowing what had become of that pretty blond mom who had hugged her kids goodbye that morning.
Or had she?
Ann didn’t know anymore. She still thought the boy might be lying, but if he was, she suspected the lie was to himself. Or maybe it started as an outright lie, but being a kid he’d convinced himself it was the truth. Or…
Scowling, she unearthed the fat manila folder that held her father’s notes. Had Sergeant Caldwell asked the little girl what the last thing her mommy had said to her was? Having read through all of this at one time, she found his descriptions of early interviews quickly.
Youngest child unhelpful, he’d scrawled. Doesn’t know where mother went.
That was it. If he’d elicited more, he hadn’t bothered to write it down.
Having met most of these people now, Ann kept reading.
Brett’s story, as reported by Sergeant Caldwell, was similar to what he’d said today, but not exact. So, he hadn’t memorized a lie word for word and was sticking to it.
Boy upset, her father had written. Keeps looking at father.
Brett, Ann thought, had been ten—no, nine—years old then. A child. Scared, confused. Of course he kept looking at his father, his anchor.
Sergeant Caldwell hadn’t seemed very interested in what Lynn Adams, the neighbor, had had to say. Last person to see J.L., he’d noted. 10:30 a.m. Heard no disturbance thereafter except dogs barking because of passing UPS truck. Was in backyard or her house, never looked out front. Admits to napping—heavy sleeper?
Ann blinked. She flipped through the next pages to find his follow-up, but either those notes had been lost, or…he hadn’t been interested in interviewing the deliveryman.
Was it possible that he’d let a possible witness go unquestioned? Why? And then, shocked, she realized. The UPS truck had gone by too early.
Craig Lofgren hadn’t left the airport until—she checked—11:15, and therefore couldn’t have made it home until almost noon. Sergeant Caldwell had been sure that the UPS driver hadn’t seen anything, because he’d had only one suspect.
No. That couldn’t be. He’d let a detail slip. That’s all. Everyone made mistakes.
But as she read, she kept noticing discrepancies he hadn’t jumped on, gaps where he should have asked questions.
Lynn Adams had assumed Julie was coming home after having driven her children to school. But she hadn’t driven them; they’d taken the bus. So where had she gone? She’d have had to get dressed pretty quickly after her kids had gone out the door to get anything done and be home by the time Lynn and she had waved at each other. So why hadn’t she dropped the kids at school on the way to do her errand, as was apparently her habit?
Maybe she just hadn’t felt like it. According to her husband, she’d been unhappy about having to spend so much time with her children.
And yet, she’d said goodbye to them with unusual fervency.
Okay, maybe something came to her after they were gone. She needed—what?—tampons? To mail something? Where had she gone that morning?
Sergeant Caldwell apparently hadn’t cared. Ann found no suggestion that he’d sent uniforms out to local businesses with her photo.
She kept reading, kept being bothered. He’d done a cursory search for a living Julie Lofgren. He’d checked airlines, bus terminals, Amtrak. Phone records—the only call all morning had been Craig’s from the airport, when he left a message on their voice mail saying his flight had been cancelled and he was on his way home. Sergeant Caldwell had issued a bulletin so that other law enforcement agencies would watch for her.
But what, Ann thought, frowning, if Julie’s errand that morning had had something to do with her disappearance? What if she’d met somebody while she was out? What if she used a public telephone so her call wasn’t traced? What if she bought supplies—the equivalent of a new purse to replace the one she abandoned?
Sergeant Michael Caldwell had been so certain Julie’s husband had murdered her, he hadn’t followed up on other possibilities. Not really.
Has anyone ever seriously looked for Julie?
Her heart drumming, feeling sick, Ann thought, No. The answer was no.
Still staring down at her father’s familiar hand writing, Ann saw it as if through a camera lens. The dark scrawl was made tiny, distant and crystal clear.
Perhaps she was one of those people creeping out of his shadow to point fingers, but she realized that in the space of the past hour, he had become less godlike, more human. A man with prejudices and in securities, who had seen in Craig Lofgren what he most despised—or perhaps, what made him feel most inadequate.
And here had been his chance to prove that wealth and success bred arrogance and immorality, that a well-to-do man used to having what he wanted would think nothing of smashing something rather than let ting anyone else have it.
Here was his chance to prove that men who had advantages he didn’t couldn’t be decent.
No, she thought, already retreating from an understanding she didn’t want to accept. If he’d acted on prejudice, it hadn’t been consciously. Craig Lofgren was arrogant. She saw him again staring her down as he said, “No. I may have to let you ask questions, but I control the environment you ask them in.”
Her father had been expecting to see fear and bewilderment when a wife and mother had gone missing. If he met irritation and disdain for the police instead, he might reasonably have taken that for a thin veneer hiding a killer who was sneering inside because he knew he’d get away with his crime.
Her father had focused on one suspect, that’s all. Perhaps he’d done so too soon; perhaps he should have pursued other scenarios more aggressively, but that was an easy mistake to make when you caught a scent and knew.
Unfortunately, grocery store clerks wouldn’t remember one face at the check-out counter on a particular morning a year and a half ago. Or would they? Ann stared into space, thinking.
Maybe, if someone had read in the news the next day that Julie Lofgren had disappeared, he or she would remember waiting on her the day before. If she’d bought seemingly innocuous items, contacting the police wouldn’t have seemed important. Especially if news articles reported that she’d been seen arriving home later in the morning.
Energized, Ann opened her notebook. Okay. Time frame. Julie would have had—Ann calculated—one hour and twenty minutes, tops, to do her errand. So she’d likely have gone to Klickitat or Salmon Creek, both within ten minute drives. Unless she’d gone specifically to meet s
omeone, or to pick up one item and make a quick turnaround… If that were the case, they’d never find out where she’d been. But closer to home, they might get lucky.
She had some calls to make before she went back to Klickitat, starting with UPS.
BRETT SLUMPED on the floor with his back to the bed, his knees drawn to his chest, his chin resting on them. Malcolm slouched on the bed looking uncomfortable. Robin had knocked and come in, leaving Craig talking to Abby in her bedroom.
“Hi, Brett.”
He glanced up. “Hi. Um… You’d better watch out.” He scooted crablike to the middle of the room to shove a heap of dirty clothes and soccer gear out of her way.
“That’s okay. My bedroom looks like this half the time.” She grinned at his expression. “Well, not really, but it did when I was your age. I’ve learned to make myself do the minimum to keep the floor cleared, but I still lose stuff constantly.”
“Really?” She’d distracted him, at least; he obviously couldn’t believe his teacher was admitting to a huge character defect. “I mean, your house is…well, not, like…”
She saved him from embarrassment. “Super neat? Nope. It isn’t. I just have so much going on. Has Mal told you I’m writing a book?”
He shook his head. “What kind of book?”
“A novel for teenagers. It’s actually my third. The other two haven’t sold, but the second one came close and I think I’m getting better.”
He scooted back to the bed. “That would be so cool.”
“I think so.” She nodded at his desk chair. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
Brett shook his head.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I mean, downstairs.”
He ducked his head and mumbled, “Yeah.”
“I just thought I’d see if you wanted to talk about it before I take Malcolm and go home.”
He shrugged, his shaggy hair hanging over his forehead.
“That’s really tough on you, knowing they suspect your dad.”
“Tough on me?” he burst out, lifting his head. “What about Dad? What if they arrest him? Because of what I said about not being sure if it really happened?”
“Now, how can they do that?” Robin was careful to keep her voice calm, reasonable. She was very aware of her own son, listening. “Last I heard, they have no evidence whatsoever that your mom is even dead, never mind that your father had anything to do with it. They need evidence to arrest someone—dried blood, a weapon, a body. Something. They don’t have any of that.”
“But…” His voice shook with doubt. “Back when…when she first went away…I know they were about to arrest Dad! That cop Caldwell kept saying he was!”
“But he didn’t, did he? He was just trying to shake your dad. In case he had a guilty conscience.”
“Oh.” He picked at a loose thread on the hem of his T-shirt. With a low voice he asked, “Do you think…I mean, you don’t think Dad hurt Mom, do you?”
“Oh, Brett!” If Malcolm hadn’t been here, too, she would have dropped to her knees and taken the eleven-year-old’s hands. Or even hugged him. But she didn’t want to embarrass him. “No! Of course not! I don’t know what happened to your mom, but I don’t believe your father had anything to do with it. If nothing else, he loves you and Abby too much to put you through this.”
Brett sniffed and gave a small nod.
Robin lifted her gaze to see Craig standing in the bedroom doorway. His eyes met hers for a long, silent moment, before he cleared his throat and stepped into the room.
“Hey.”
Brett swiveled and looked up at his father. “I really blew it, didn’t I?”
“Blew it?” Craig crossed the room in a couple of strides and crouched in front of his boy. “What are you talking about? You told the truth. How can that be ‘blowing it’?”
“Because…because now I’m confused about what I remember,” he said miserably. “Witnesses are supposed to know what they saw or heard. Not think they might have been dreaming.”
“But if you’re not sure, saying that is the best thing you can do.” With his back to Robin, Craig clasped his son’s shoulders. “We want the police to find your mom. If we lie, we might send them off looking in the wrong place.”
Robin couldn’t see Brett’s face. He was hidden behind his father. But she heard his heartbreaking uncertainty. “But…you said you don’t think they are looking. That’s why you hired that P.I. back when Mom first disappeared. Right?”
Craig didn’t answer for a moment. When he did, he sounded as if he was choosing his words carefully. “I think Sergeant Caldwell was so sure I’d killed her, he wasn’t really looking. But then the P.I. didn’t find her, either. Maybe I’m blaming Sergeant Caldwell for not accomplishing the impossible. I don’t know. Brett, I could be wrong, but these new police officers seem to me to be trying to get at the truth. And they have resources a private investigator doesn’t.”
His son sniffed again. “They were okay to me. And they did ask a lot of questions.”
“Yeah, they did. They asked Abby a lot, too. Some Sergeant Caldwell didn’t. I think maybe these two believe that your mom was saying goodbye to you two. And if they start believing that, they’ll have to look for her, because it means she chose to leave.”
“Yeah,” his son agreed, first with doubt, then more strongly. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You know it’s getting on to dinnertime.”
Startled, Robin glanced at her watch. Had she actually been here for nearly two hours?
“How would it be if we go out for pizza? Maybe Robin and Malcolm would like to go with us.”
He glanced back at her in inquiry.
She bit her lip. In her head, she heard the police woman’s voice.
Either you are being very foolish, Ms. McKinnon, or you’re getting your kicks from flirting with a killer. For your own safety, please think about it.
Which was she being?
But neither she nor Mal would be in any danger at a pizza parlor. She could…well, think about this later. Decide.
She sounded like Scarlett O’Hara, Robin thought. Tomorrow was another day.
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “Mal?”
Her son scooted toward the edge of the bed. “Yeah!”
“Okay!” Brett said. “Are we going now? I have to find my shoes.”
“And I have to go tell Abby to get ready.” Rising, Craig looked again at Robin. “Shall we all go in one car? Or do you want to follow us so you can go straight home afterward?”
“Depends where we’re going.”
“We like Luigi’s in Salmon Creek. Unless you have a better idea.”
“No, that’s one of our favorites, too. We’ll follow you.” That would give her a chance to talk to Malcolm, too. She hoped she hadn’t traumatized him by pushing him into a friendship with Brett again.
Since he was ready, they went ahead, leaving Craig helping his daughter find a second sandal. On the edge of tears, she was insisting she had to wear those sandals.
Robin and Mal did their best talking in the car. Conversation seemed to flow when the two people weren’t obliged to look at each other. He could slouch in his seat and put his feet up on the dashboard. With such an old car, she had never objected.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Even her extra-mature son suffered from the male belief that he always had to seem tough.
“It’s not every day you’re hanging out with a friend who gets questioned by the police about an alleged murder.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Most eleven-year-old boys would have decided that actually it was kind of cool being involved in a murder investigation. Heck, under some circumstances Malcolm would have. But this was different. He turned a troubled gaze on his mother. “You don’t think Brett’s dad did…you know. Do you?”
“If I really thought so, I wouldn’t have let you go over there, never mind spend the night.” Which was t
he truth, as far as it went. Robin weighed the pros and cons of sharing some of her worries and doubts, but went with the cons. Her son, however mature, was only eleven.
“I like Mr. Lofgren.”
“I do, too.”
“But why would Brett’s mom have just…left?”
She hesitated.
Mal gave a shrug meant to be indifferent. “Dumb question, huh? Dad did.”
“He did want you to live with him.”
“Mom, I’m not stupid.” This was one of those moments when Malcolm might have been twenty-five. His face had a wry twist that hid hurt. “I know he didn’t want me.”
She reached for his hand. “Do you wish he had?”
“No. I mean, not really.” His face vulnerable, he met her glance. “I want to live with you. I never would have gone with him. It just…doesn’t feel good, knowing my own father doesn’t care.”
She squeezed his hand again, then put her own back on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Really. His loss, right?”
She’d told him that a million times. Now she smiled. “Big time.”
Oh, how she wished Glenn would someday know how much he had lost! She liked to think of him suffering. Dying alone in a nursing home, telling a bored orderly in a creaky voice, “I had a son, you know. It’s my fault he’s not here.”
That was one of her favorite fantasies. She’d have been ashamed to admit as much to anyone else, but every time she saw what rejection by his father had done to Malcolm, she rediscovered her vindictive streak.
Not on a major highway, Salmon Creek was maintaining a small town atmosphere better than Klickitat was. A few new houses had sprouted on vacant lots in town, but the large developments were springing up around Klickitat instead because the commute to Tacoma and Seattle was shorter. Fast food outlets hadn’t yet displaced cafés where old-timers sat for half the day over coffee, refilled with no complaints by white-aproned, middle-aged waitresses who unashamedly eavesdropped on gossip.
Mommy Said Goodbye Page 14
