Six Seconds

“But…”

“You know real cases are not like TV crime shows, Hollywood movies or books. There are always loose, inexplicable threads that cannot be tied up neatly at the end, and have no bearing on a criminal act.”

“My gut’s telling me there’s more to this.”

“Your gut?”

“Sir, you’ve got nothing to lose by signing off on a thorough investigation.”

“Dan, our budget’s tight. We’re shorthanded. I need you on other cases.”

“We’re talking a multiple death case with unsettling circumstances.”

Stotter crossed his arms, cognizant of the fact Graham was one of his best, that he needed to keep him on his game and that this case could be crucial to preserving his confidence. After ruminating on the situation, Stotter grabbed Graham’s report.

“Give me an hour.”

Some forty minutes later, Stotter, holding Graham’s rolled report like a baton in his hand, waved him into his office.

“Shut the door. I talked to the superintendent.”

“And?”

“Apart from his life insurance—” Stotter had circled part of Graham’s report “—Ray Tarver took out a small Canadian travel insurance policy when he booked their trip.”

“Right. It doesn’t pay much for death.”

“In cases where bodies are not recovered the policy has a standard presumption-of-death clause.”

“You’re going to let me do this, let me go to the U.S. and check his background?”

“Listen to what I’m telling you.”

Graham took out his notebook.

“You get in touch with the LO in Washington and give him what he needs to set you up down there. This is how you approach this: You tell people that you’re completing paperwork that confirms Ray Tarver was in peril at the time of his presumed death. All efforts to locate him have been exhausted. You’re asking a few routine background questions, basically to ensure that he hasn’t surfaced, wandering like an amnesia victim, or was acting out of character before the tragedy.”

“Right.”

“You say that you’re tending to an administrative matter while you’re in the U.S. following up on other unrelated matters. This will be low-key with no potential for ruffling feathers or causing embarrassment between the force and U.S. law enforcement. Besides, I’m sure some of the guys will be busy with the papal visit. Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

“Got it.”

“You are not authorized to conduct a criminal investigation in the United States. Is that clear, Corporal Graham?”

“Crystalline.”

“Register your trip with the travel branch. You have one, maybe two weeks, unless I call you back sooner.”

17

Los Angeles, California

Please, God, let it be Logan.

Blurry images of a boy played on the screen before Maggie.

Let it be him. Please.

A few days after Maggie’s ordeal with Madame Fatima, a new hope had emerged.

“We believe this is your son,” Ned Rimmer said just as the video froze and static snowed on the images.

Rimmer was an LAPD detective—“retired six years now” after a drug dealer’s bullet took his left eye. Rimmer wore an eye patch, a ponytail and a sour disposition most days. He was still a detective, just not the kind he’d planned on being.

Rimmer and his wife, Sharmay, an emergency dispatcher with a penchant for dangling earrings, belonged to the Guardian Rescue Society, a national group of law enforcement types who volunteered their money, resources and time, to find children in parental abduction cases who’d slipped through the cracks.

Logan’s file was passed to them months ago when Maggie had first sought help from support groups who’d circulated her plea among their circles.

She’d never heard of the society until today when Sharmay called her at the bookstore, identified herself, then said, “We believe one of our Guardians may have located your son, Logan Conlin.”

Stunned into silence, Maggie gripped the phone.

“Hello? Maggie?”

“My God, do you have him? Where is he? Is he okay? I have to see him!”

“We don’t have him yet. We’d prefer to discuss details at our Los Angeles office. Please come as soon as it’s convenient so we can advance the case.”

An hour later, after following Sharmay’s directions, Maggie had parked her car on a street that bordered Culver City and West L.A.

The society’s L.A. chapter was in a second-story office above the Flying Emerald Dragon takeout restaurant. The aroma of deep-fried chicken and stir-fried vegetables filled it now as Maggie sat before the video monitor.

“Here we go. Fixed it,” Rimmer said. “This footage comes to us from our New York chapter from Wayne Kraychinski, retired NYPD detective first grade.”

As the Rimmers had explained it, Kraychinski checked Logan’s profile with his school sources, as he does with all the cases his chapter takes on.

Kraychinski got a lead in Queens concerning a boy fitting Logan’s age and description. According to the history, the boy had recently moved to the community with his father, a trucker, who fit Jake Conlin’s general profile.

Kraychinski and some of the other Guardians initiated surveillance.

“We’ve got a series of sequences recorded over a few weeks,” Rimmer said.

The camera shook and a boy about eight to ten years old in a hooded sweatshirt swam into view but not in sharp focus. Maggie couldn’t see his face clearly, or his full body and gait. The boy was among a group walking through a schoolyard to a basketball court.

“Now, this is where they reside.”

The video jumped to a row of tired-looking two-story detached homes shoehorned into a Queens neighborhood. One house had a rig out front. No trailer. A green Peterbilt. Being married to a trucker, Maggie knew vehicles. Jake drove a Kenworth but he could’ve sold it or traded it for a Peterbilt.