Tangled Souls (33 page)

“What picture?” O’Fallon asked, confused.

“Maria’s picture.”

“Why was the picture here?”

“It was a surp’ise.”

Kid logic.
O’Fallon addressed the girl’s mother. “Did you know about this?”

“It’s the first I heard of it. When Bradley was here, they would go to the playhouse. Sometimes they’d paint.”

“Why didn’t you tell your mom about the picture?”

The little girl dropped her gaze to her shoes. “I forgot.”

“To tell her?”

A shake of the head. “To take it to school.”

Mrs. Foster read between the lines. “Sweetie, it’s not your fault Bradley got hurt. It’s nobody’s fault.”

Except the bastard who killed him.
“What did the picture look like, Julianne?” O’Fallon asked.

“Blue and red flowers,” the girl said. “I got him a . . .” She frowned as if unsure of the word and then twirled her hand in a circle. “You know, Mommy.”

“No, I don’t, sweetie.”

“What Daddy does with his drawings,” the girl insisted. She made the hand circle again.

Mrs. Foster thought for a moment. “Oh, you mean one of the tubes?”

The child nodded vigorously. “We put it in there so it wouldn’t get hurt.

“Tube?” O’Fallon asked, not quite following.

Mrs. Foster explained. “My husband’s an architect. He stores his blueprints in those cardboard packing tubes. Apparently Julianne gave one to Bradley.”

O’Fallon jotted down a note.

“Did Bradley take the picture with him?”

A nod.

“So what happened to the picture?” O’Fallon mused.

The girl shook her head and shrugged. Then she frowned and said, “Maybe the man took it.”

O’Fallon and the child’s mother traded looks.

“What man, sweetie?” Mrs. Foster asked.

“The man,” the girl insisted. “He followed us.”

Before her mother could react, O’Fallon raised a hand, gesturing for her to let him resume the questioning. He made sure to keep his voice level and calm. “What did this man look like?”

“I dunno. He was in a big car. He drove by us.”

“More than once?”

A nod.

“What kind of car?”

A shrug. “Big. Like Mrs. Elton’s.”

Before he could ask, Mrs. Foster replied, “She means an SUV.”

“What color was the big car, Julianne?” O’Fallon asked, his heart picking up speed.

“Black.”

Mrs. Foster’s mouth opened in surprise. She’d just made the connection between the car cited in the little boy’s accident and the man who’d followed the children.

“Did Bradley know the man?” O’Fallon asked.

Another shrug.

“Did he stop and talk to Bradley.”

“No.”

“Have you seen the car before?”

“No.”

He was running out of questions. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked gently.

The girl nodded. “Merlin growled at him.”

“Did Merlin do that a lot?”

“No. Just at him.”

O’Fallon rubbed his chin.
Why would the dog react like that?
Another puzzle.

“Thank you, Julianne. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, standing. He hesitated and then added, “Do you like cats?”

The little girl nodded and her face brightened.

“Mr. Alliford has a new kitten at his house. His name is TJ. I bet he’d love to meet you.”

The girl gave her mother a hopeful look. “Can we see him, Mommy?”

“Sure, sweetie. We can do that. You can play with TJ and I can see how Bradley’s father is doing.”

Mrs. Foster didn’t speak again until they reached the front door. Right before he stepped outside, she caught his arm. Her voice dropped low. “You don’t think this was a hit-and-run, do you?”

Perceptive lady.
“No, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around.”

“Do you think it was some sort of pervert?”

He felt her fear:
What if this bastard comes after my daughter?

“I don’t think so. I think this was an attempt to extort money from Mr. Alliford. But, to be on the safe side, I’d be extra cautious for the next little while.”

She seemed to think that over and then offered, “I only met Janet Alliford once. She was flying high that day, barely coherent. That’s why I encouraged Bradley to come here to play, so he could have some time away from that.”

“That was good of you,” O’Fallon said.

The woman sighed and shifted her gaze back toward the interior of the house. “I’m not sure how Julianne is going to deal with this, especially if it wasn’t an accident. She’ll have to know that someday.”

“Children are very resilient,” O’Fallon said. “They always surprise you.”

“I hope so. Let me know if I can be of any further help.”

“I will.”

“Oh, Mr. O’Fallon?”

He stopped in midturn. “Yes?”

“If it wasn’t an accident . . .” Another look inside and then back. “Crucify the bastard, will you?”

He crooked a smile at the matron’s ruthless streak.

“I’ll be pleased to do just that, ma’am.”

* * *

Red’s Diner was only half full, a breather before the supper hour. A businessman was ensconced in one of the booths, wired every way technologically possible. O’Fallon kept the smirk to himself, knowing one poorly placed cup of coffee would ruin the guy’s day.

He chose his usual booth, ordered some coffee, and tried to calm himself by scanning his notes. The list of potential suspects was growing exponentially, since a Bel Air household resembled a fiefdom. With the window washers, trash haulers, gardeners, pool people, security folks, painters, dog groomers, and so on, the possibilities were nearly endless.

O’Fallon sighed. “Too many unknowns,” he muttered. He could waste a lifetime trying to narrow the field. He flipped back a few pages, tapping his pen against an underlined name. “Weakest link first,” he said. “Janet Alliford.”

The diner’s door swung open and two men entered, engaged in an animated conversation. From the cut of their clothes he pegged them as the homicide detectives who’d investigated Bradley’s death: Detectives Zimansky and Larsen. The news he had for them wasn’t going to be an icebreaker. Cops never liked to hear they’d overlooked clues that turned an accident into a full-blown homicide. Especially when the victim was a six-year-old child.

Zimansky resembled a bedraggled bloodhound, ready to hang up his badge and call it a career. Larsen was the younger of the two.

“O’Fallon?” the older cop asked.

He gave an acknowledging nod and the pair slid into the seat opposite him. The waitress appeared, took the drink order, and returned with the beverages in record time.

“If I hadn’t heard of you,” Zimansky drawled lazily, his accent closer to Tennessee than California, “I’d tell you to go to hell and enjoy the ride.”

O’Fallon offered a benign grunt. At least he had the veteran cop’s attention. “I didn’t like folks second-guessing my work, either.”

Zimansky gave a slow nod. “So what’s this about?”

Time to dangle a bit of bait.
“I have a . . . source . . . that says the Alliford kid’s hit-and-run wasn’t accidental.”

A snort of derision came from Larsen. Zimansky, on the other hand, nonchalantly stirred more sugar into his glass of iced tea. By O’Fallon’s count, he was up to three packets; a true Southerner.

“Why hasn’t this source come forward?” Larsen demanded.

“It’s an odd situation. You’re just going to have to trust me that it’s worth your time.”

The younger cop shook his head. “We don’t owe you jack.”

Zimansky reached for another packet of sugar, tore it open, and dropped the contents into his tea. The granules sheeted downward and then spun in a leisurely clockwise swirl as he blended the concoction. It was a subtle indication he was willing to listen, if only for a brief period of time.

Zimansky glanced up from his mixing. “Why’d you pull the pin?”

O’Fallon should have expected the question. Cops always wanted to know why one of their own took early retirement.

“The work got to me,” he replied honestly.

“Scuttlebutt said you starting seeing things, things that weren’t there,” Zimansky replied, his dark-brown eyes intense. He took a sip of the tea and nodded his approval. Apparently he’d found the proper proportion of colored water and sugar.

“I took some leave to get my head straight, then decided to make it permanent, if that’s what you mean.”

“You were on the Morelli killings, weren’t you?” the senior detective asked.

“Yes.” O’Fallon took a sip of his coffee. It was vastly superior to the stuff at the car-repair shop. “That’s when I started having problems.”

“Did the shrinks help?” the bloodhound asked.

“No. They talked a lot of bullshit about how I should get a life outside the force.”

Zimansky huffed in derision. “They’ve got no clue what’s it like. I’ve been that way myself. They said I talk slow because I don’t have any self-esteem.”

“You seem fine in that department,” O’Fallon observed. He’d already made Zimansky’s type: the quiet cop who studied everything before drawing a conclusion. Like Avery. Slow speech rarely meant a slow mind.

“Okay, you got five minutes,” the detective said. “After that, we’re gone and you’re paying for the drinks.”

“Fair enough.” O’Fallon took another jolt of his coffee, playing it nonchalant. He didn’t want to sound desperate, though that was exactly how he felt. The cops had to sign back onto the case, or Bradley’s killer might never be found.

He pulled his mind back to the task at hand. “I believe it was someone the kid knew; that’s why they had to kill him when the kidnapping went south.”

“How can you be sure?” Zimansky asked, leaning across the table. “Did you have one of those . . . visions?”

Larsen snorted. It appeared to be his favorite response. As the waitress sailed by, the junior cop elevated his cup for a refill.

Play it cool.
“You’ll have to take my word; it was someone who knew the kid.” They eyed each other, and then the bloodhound leaned back.

“Go on.”

“The kidnapper knew the Alliford family routine, knew the maid bought groceries on Tuesdays. By insuring she had car trouble while she was at the store, the kidnapper could pick up the kid and vanish before anyone was the wiser.”

“Why do you think the car was tampered with?” Larsen asked.

“I spoke with the guy who serviced it. He said the starter fuse was missing. Sometimes they fall out of their own accord—and sometimes, they have help.”

Zimansky tapped his chin in thought. “Interesting.”

“Bradley walked home, then to Julianne Foster’s house.”

“Yeah, we know that. He took the dog with him,” Larsen interjected. “None of this is news.”

O’Fallon ignored the naysayer. “Do you know why he walked to his friend’s house?”

“Why would we care?” Larsen asked. “Either way, he ended up dead.”

“Go on,” Zimansky pressed.

“Bradley went to Julianne Foster’s to get a painting he’d made for the Allifords’ maid. On the way back, he meets up with the man in an SUV.”

“How do you know it was a guy?” Zimansky asked.

“I spoke with Julianne today. She said that a man in a big car followed them from her house, passed by them a couple of times. She said the vehicle was black.”

“A car, not an SUV,” Larsen said. “There’s a difference.”

“To a kid, maybe not,” Zimansky said. “So the boy gets his painting and starts home. What do you think happened?”

“I think the kidnapper made his move once the little girl wasn’t around. He offered Bradley a ride, maybe even told him that Maria said it was okay.”