Making Her Way Home. Janice Johnson Kay

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      “My niece was studying crabs in a tide pool with their children. There was no need for me to interview the parents for suitability.”

      Her voice and expression were marble cool. He kept waiting for her to shiver or something, but it wasn’t happening.

      “But these people are gone.”

      “Yes.”

      He could see the first people from search-and-rescue arriving in the parking lot. He excused himself from Beth Greenway and went to talk to them about where to start. Nobody suggested that the beach had been adequately searched; these men and women knew as well as he did how easy it would be for an adult who’d raped and murdered a child to pretend to examine the spot where the body had been stowed. No one wanted to believe yet that this was anything other than a case in which a kid had thoughtlessly wandered away. Maybe she had gone for a hike with someone, maybe gotten lost, maybe gone to sulk and hide from the aunt if the two of them were fighting.

      “I need to ask the aunt some more questions,” he said, and they proceeded to organize themselves.

      When he returned, Beth had her back to him. Purposely, or was she truly engrossed in what the cluster of people way down the beach was doing? He looked to see if there was a flurry of activity, but there wasn’t.

      “Ms. Greenway.”

      Maybe she was hiding tears. But when she turned, her eyes were dry and curiously blank.

      “Does your niece have a habit of wandering or hiding?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “What can you tell you me about her?” His voice had sharpened.

      She blinked a couple of times. “Well…she’s a good student.”

      “There’s not much to read down here.”

      Her sharp chin was one of the features that kept her from true beauty. She lifted it now. “Was that meant to be sarcastic?”

      “I apologize,” he said expressionlessly. “Tell me whatever occurs to you.”

      “I think she does like science. That’s why I checked out the nature trail right away.”

      “Can she swim?”

      Both of them cast involuntary looks toward the choppy blue water of the Sound. Until now he’d been too preoccupied to notice the salty sea air and the faint scent of rot that was usual during a low tide.

      “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Nobody swims here anyway, so the subject didn’t come up. She didn’t wear a bathing suit.”

      “Ms. Greenway—” civility was becoming harder to maintain “—perhaps we should call Sicily’s parents.”

      Those beautiful eyes met his. “She doesn’t have any. I have custody.”

      Every instinct he had went on red alert. Did this kid even exist? This whole thing could be a hoax, an attention-grabber. Worse possibilities jumped to mind and if Sicily Marks didn’t materialize pretty damn quickly, he was going to have to take those possibilities seriously.

      “Her mother died a month ago.” Ms. Greenway sounded stiff. “Sicily came to live with me then. We’re still feeling our way.”

      He shoved his fingers through his hair and resisted the urge to give it a yank. Could this whole situation get any more unsettling?

      “I take it you hadn’t spent much time with your niece.”

      Was it possible the arms wrapping her had tightened? “My sister and I were estranged. I sent Sicily birthday cards and the like, but she tells me that Rachel—her mother—never gave them to her.”

      Mike digested the fact that this family was—or at least had been—majorly screwed up. Which meant the kid likely was, too. “Her father?” he asked.

      “Hasn’t been in the picture since Sicily was a toddler. She doesn’t remember him.”

      Good. Great.

      “Grandparents?”

      “She has them,” Ms. Greenway said tersely.

      “Do they know her any better than you do?”

      “I…don’t think so.”

      She didn’t think so. If she didn’t know what kind of relationship her own parents had with her sister and niece, that meant she had no relationship to speak of with them, either. That poor kid’s family was a mess.

      He kept asking questions. Had she and Sicily quarreled today? No. Yesterday? No. Recently? No. In the month since her mother died, had the girl tried to run away or otherwise alarmed Ms. Greenway? No, nothing like that. Does she carry a cell phone?

      She gave him a startled look. “She’s ten years old! Of course not.”

      He’d have pursued the subject, except that even kids who did have a phone might not carry it to the beach.

      Had Ms. Greenway noticed anyone else close by today? Seeming to pay attention to them? Maybe watching Sicily or pausing to talk to her?

      No. Ms. Greenway was reading and only glancing up occasionally before she nodded off.

      She was one hundred percent no help. The whole time he questioned her, she held on to that astonishing poise. Literally, since she never once uncrossed her arms. He kind of wished she would, since the tightness of her grip pushed her breasts up and created a distractingly deep cleavage above the white tank top that also revealed a fragile collarbone and long, slim arms. At least her legs weren’t equally bared; she wore khaki pants that ended midcalf and the kind of sandals sturdy enough to be running shoes except somebody had decided to add cutouts for extra ventilation.

      He let the silence spin out, thinking maybe that would shake her. As if to punctuate it, a seagull swooped low overhead and let out a strident cry. She jumped and gave a wild look around. Mike waited, but that was it.

      Finally, he conceded defeat. “Ms. Greenway, is there anyone at all Sicily might go to or call if she got scared or separated from you?”

      For the first time, he saw despair in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered, and he knew she was ashamed to have to admit it.

      Or, like that landscaper John Sullivan, she was playing him.

      “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said abruptly. “I need to speak to some other people.”

      By this time, nearly two dozen members of the search-and-rescue organization had arrived and were spread out, combing the park for one little girl in red shorts. He spoke to a couple of the people in charge, then phoned another detective with whom he often worked. Eddie Ruliczkowski answered on the third ring and listened in silence to Mike’s request.

      “Yeah, hold on and I’ll do a quick internet search.” With his big, beefy fingers, Eddie had a heavy hand on a keyboard. The keys clattered СКАЧАТЬ