curious as to why she’d been staring at his hands. “Sometimes it’s best not to think too loudly.” While she was chewing that over, he handed her the sketch. “This is the man who took David.”
She wanted to dismiss the drawing, and the artist. But there was something eerily right about it. Saying nothing, she walked behind her desk and opened David’s folder. Inside were four police sketches. She chose one, comparing it to Sebastian’s work.
His was more detailed, certainly. The witness hadn’t noticed that little C-shaped scar under the left eye or the chipped front tooth. The police artist hadn’t captured that expression of glittery panic. But, essentially, they were the same man—the shape of the face, the set of the eyes, the springy hair beginning to recede.
So he has a connection on the force, she told herself, trying to settle her jumping nerves. He got hold of a copy of the sketch, then embellished it a bit.
She tossed the sketch down, then settled in her chair. It squeaked rustily when she leaned back. “Why thisone?”
“Because that’s the one I saw. He was driving a brown Mercury. An ’83 or ’84. Beige interior. The backseat’s ripped on the left side. He likes country music. At least that’s what he had playing on the car radio when he drove off with the child. East,” he murmured, and his eyes sharpened to a knife edge for just a heartbeat. “Southeast.”
One of the witnesses had reported a brown car. Nondescript but unfamiliar, parked near Rose’s apartment. Several days running, he’d said.
And Sebastian could have gotten that information from the police, as well, Mel reminded herself. She’d called his bluff, and he was just pushing buttons.
But if he wasn’t … if there was the slightest chance …
“A face and a car.” She tried to sound disinterested, but the faintest of tremors in her voice betrayed her. “No name, address and serial number?”
“You’re a tough sell, Sutherland.” It would be easy to dislike her, he thought, if he couldn’t see—feel—how desperately she cared.
What the hell. He’d dislike her on principle.
“A child’s life is at stake.”
“He’s safe,” Sebastian said. “Safe and well cared for. A little confused, and he cries more than he did. But no one’s hurt him.”
She felt the breath clog up in her lungs. She wanted to believe that—that much, if nothing more.
“You’re not going to talk to Rose about this,” she said steadily. “It’ll drive her crazy.”
Ignoring her, Sebastian went on. “The man who took him was afraid. You could smell it. He took him to a woman somewhere … East.” It would come. “And she dressed him in Oshkosh overalls and a red-striped shirt. He was in a car seat and had a ring of plastic keys to play with. They drove most of the day, then stopped at a motel. It had a dinosaur out front. She fed him, bathed him, and when he cried she walked him until he fell asleep.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Utah.” He frowned a little. “Arizona, maybe, but probably Utah. The next day they drove, still southeast. She’s not afraid.
It’s just business. They go to a mall—someplace in Texas. East Texas. It’s crowded. She sits on a bench. A man sits beside her. He leaves an envelope on the bench and pushes David away in his stroller.
“The same routine the following day. David’s tired of traveling and bewildered by all the strange faces. He wants home. He’s taken to a house. A big stone house with old, leafy trees in the yard. South. It feels like Georgia. He’s given to a woman who holds him and cries a little, and a man who holds them both. He has a room there, with blue sailboats on the wall and a mobile over the crib of circus animals. They call him Eric now.”
Mel was very pale when she managed to speak. “I don’t believe you.”
“No, but there’s a part of you that wonders if you should. Forget what you think of me, Mel. Think of David.”
“I am thinking of
She wanted to dismiss the drawing, and the artist. But there was something eerily right about it. Saying nothing, she walked behind her desk and opened David’s folder. Inside were four police sketches. She chose one, comparing it to Sebastian’s work.
His was more detailed, certainly. The witness hadn’t noticed that little C-shaped scar under the left eye or the chipped front tooth. The police artist hadn’t captured that expression of glittery panic. But, essentially, they were the same man—the shape of the face, the set of the eyes, the springy hair beginning to recede.
So he has a connection on the force, she told herself, trying to settle her jumping nerves. He got hold of a copy of the sketch, then embellished it a bit.
She tossed the sketch down, then settled in her chair. It squeaked rustily when she leaned back. “Why thisone?”
“Because that’s the one I saw. He was driving a brown Mercury. An ’83 or ’84. Beige interior. The backseat’s ripped on the left side. He likes country music. At least that’s what he had playing on the car radio when he drove off with the child. East,” he murmured, and his eyes sharpened to a knife edge for just a heartbeat. “Southeast.”
One of the witnesses had reported a brown car. Nondescript but unfamiliar, parked near Rose’s apartment. Several days running, he’d said.
And Sebastian could have gotten that information from the police, as well, Mel reminded herself. She’d called his bluff, and he was just pushing buttons.
But if he wasn’t … if there was the slightest chance …
“A face and a car.” She tried to sound disinterested, but the faintest of tremors in her voice betrayed her. “No name, address and serial number?”
“You’re a tough sell, Sutherland.” It would be easy to dislike her, he thought, if he couldn’t see—feel—how desperately she cared.
What the hell. He’d dislike her on principle.
“A child’s life is at stake.”
“He’s safe,” Sebastian said. “Safe and well cared for. A little confused, and he cries more than he did. But no one’s hurt him.”
She felt the breath clog up in her lungs. She wanted to believe that—that much, if nothing more.
“You’re not going to talk to Rose about this,” she said steadily. “It’ll drive her crazy.”
Ignoring her, Sebastian went on. “The man who took him was afraid. You could smell it. He took him to a woman somewhere … East.” It would come. “And she dressed him in Oshkosh overalls and a red-striped shirt. He was in a car seat and had a ring of plastic keys to play with. They drove most of the day, then stopped at a motel. It had a dinosaur out front. She fed him, bathed him, and when he cried she walked him until he fell asleep.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Utah.” He frowned a little. “Arizona, maybe, but probably Utah. The next day they drove, still southeast. She’s not afraid.
It’s just business. They go to a mall—someplace in Texas. East Texas. It’s crowded. She sits on a bench. A man sits beside her. He leaves an envelope on the bench and pushes David away in his stroller.
“The same routine the following day. David’s tired of traveling and bewildered by all the strange faces. He wants home. He’s taken to a house. A big stone house with old, leafy trees in the yard. South. It feels like Georgia. He’s given to a woman who holds him and cries a little, and a man who holds them both. He has a room there, with blue sailboats on the wall and a mobile over the crib of circus animals. They call him Eric now.”
Mel was very pale when she managed to speak. “I don’t believe you.”
“No, but there’s a part of you that wonders if you should. Forget what you think of me, Mel. Think of David.”
“I am thinking of
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