Part 39 (1/2)

brakes and skidded sideways, blocking the exit. The h.e.l.l if I would let that son of a b.i.t.c.h stalk me like a rabbit. I pulled the Glock out of its box in the door. Kicked the door open as the other car pulled alongside and the pa.s.senger's window went down. I brought the gun up into position, dead aim on the face of the driver: eyes wide, mouth open. Not Van Zandt. ”Who are you?” I shouted. ”Oh, my G.o.d! Oh, my G.o.d! Don't kill me!” ”Shut the f.u.c.k up!” I yelled. ”I want ID. Now!” ”I just-I just-” he stuttered. He looked maybe forty, thin, too much hair. ”Out of the car! Hands where I can see them!” ”Oh, my G.o.d,” he whimpered. ”Please don't kill me. I'll give you my money-” ”Shut up. I'm a cop.” ”Oh, Jesus.” Apparently, that was worse than if I had been ready to rob and kill him. He climbed out of the car with his hands held out in front of him. ”Are you right-handed or left-handed?” ”What?” ”Are you right-handed or left-handed?” ”Left.” ”With your right hand, take out your wallet and put it on the hood of the car.”

He did as he was told, put the wallet on the car and slid it across to me. ”What's your name?” ”Jimmy Manetti.” I flipped the wallet open and pretended I could see in the faint backwash of the headlights. ”Why are you following me?” He tried to shrug. ”I thought you were looking too.” ”Looking for what?” ”The party. Kay and Lisa.” ”Kay and Lisa who?” ”I dunno. Kay and Lisa. Waitresses? From Steamer's?” ”Jesus Christ,” I muttered, tossing the wallet back on the hood. ”Are you an idiot?” ”Yeah. I guess.” I shook my head and lowered the gun. I was trembling. The afterglow of an adrenaline rush and the realization that I had nearly shot an innocent moron in the face.

”Keep your distance, for G.o.d's sake,” I said, backing toward my car. ”The next person whose a.s.s you run up might not be as nice as I am.”

I left Jimmy Manetti standing with his hands still up in the air, pulled out of the cul-de-sac, and went back

in the direction I had come. Slowly. Trying to regulate my heartbeat. Trying to get my head back where it

belonged.

The lights were on in the house Paris Montgomery had gone to. Her dog was chasing its tail in the front yard. There was a car parked in the drive.

A cla.s.sic Porsche convertible with the top down and personalized plates: LKY DOG

Lucky Dog.

Trey Hughes.

Obviously, they went in there and set up the tape and the timer before they even made the last ransom call,” Landry said.

They had gathered in a conference room: himself and Weiss; Dugan and Armedgian. Major Owen Cathcart, head of the Investigations Division, had joined the gathering and would act as liaison to Sheriff Sacks. Completing the group were Bruce and Krystal Seabright, and a woman from Victim Services whose name Landry hadn't caught.

The Vic Services woman and Krystal Seabright sat off to the side of the group, Krystal s.h.i.+vering like a Chihuahua, her eyes sunken, her hair a bleached fright wig. Bruce had been none too happy to see her there, insisting she go home and let him handle things. Krystal pretended not to hear him.

”There hasn't been an event at that facility in the last three weeks,” Weiss said. ”The place is kept locked

up, but we're talking padlocks. Security has never been an issue because of the location. But it wouldn't be hard to break in.”

”Any fingerprints?” Cathcart asked.

”A few hundred,” Landry said. ”But none on the audiotape, none on the videotape, none on the timer,

none on the tape deck . . .” ”And is someone trying to get that tape to sound like a real human being?” ”They're working on it,” Dugan said. ”And what's on the videotape? Let's see it.” Landry hesitated, glancing at Krystal and the Vic Services woman. ”It's pretty rough, sir. I don't know that the family-” ”I want to see it,” Krystal said, speaking up for the first time. ”Krystal, for G.o.d's sake,” Bruce snapped as he paced behind her. ”Why would you want to see it? The detective just told you-” ”I want to see it,” she said with more force. ”She's my daughter.” ”And you want to see some animal attack her? Rape her? That's what you're saying, aren't you, Landry?” Bruce said.

Landry moved his jaw. Seabright set his teeth on edge. If he got through this case without popping the guy in the face, it was going to be a miracle.

”I said it's pretty rough to watch. There's no rape, but Erin takes a beating. I wouldn't recommend you

watch it, Mrs. Seabright.” ”There's no reason, Krystal-” Bruce started. His wife interrupted him. ”She's my daughter.” Krystal Seabright stood up, her trembling hands clasped in front of her. ”I want to see it, Detective Landry. I want to see what my husband has done to my daughter.”

”Me?” Bruce turned red in the face and made a choking sound in his throat like maybe he was having a

heart attack. He looked at the cops in the room. ”I am nothing but a victim in this!”

Krystal turned on him. ”You're as guilty as the people who took her!”

”I'm not the one who brought the cops into this! They said no cops.”

”You wouldn't have done anything,” Krystal said bitterly. ”You wouldn't even have told me she was

gone!”

Seabright looked embarra.s.sed. His mouth quivered with bad temper. He stepped closer to his wife and lowered his voice. ”Krystal, this is neither the time nor the place to have this discussion.”

She ignored him, looking instead at Landry. ”I want to see the tape. She's my daughter.”

”As if you ever cared,” Bruce muttered. ”A cat is a better mother than you.”

”I think it's important for Mrs. Seabright to see at least part of the tape.” The Vic Services woman put her two cents in. ”You can always ask them to stop it at any point, Krystal.”

”I want to see it.”

Krystal walked forward, teetering unsteadily on leopard print stiletto heels. She looked as fragile as a gla.s.s ornament, as if one tap would shatter her into a million gaudy-colored slivers. Landry moved to take her by the arm. The Vic Services woman then finally got up off her wide a.s.s to help, to come and stand beside Krystal Seabright and offer support.

”This is against my better judgment, Mrs. Seabright,” Dugan said.

Krystal looked at him, eyes bugging out. ”I want to see it!” she shouted. ”How many times do I have to say it? Do I have to scream? Do I have to get a court order? I want to see it!”

Dugan held up a hand in surrender. ”We'll play the tape. Just tell us when to stop it, Mrs. Seabright.”

He nodded to Weiss, and Weiss fed the tape into the VCR that sat with a twenty-one-inch TV on a cart at the front of the room.

Everyone was silent as the video image faded in to a scene inside a bedroom in what looked to be a trailer house. The window gave it away: a cheap aluminum frame around filthy gla.s.s. Someone had taken a finger and written on the dirty pane: HELP, the letters backward so the word could be read from outside the trailer.