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“I couldn’t help it, McKenzie,” Joley said. “You have to believe me.”

I brushed the hair out of her eyes; they were tearless, bright, and clear. “Of course I believe you,” I said. With a voice like hers, how could I not? I led her back to the chair.Advertisement

“I don’t know how he got into the house,” Joley said. “I turned around and there he was. At first I thought he was a thief. Then I thought he might be a client who somehow discovered my true identity. He touched me, McKenzie. He did things with his hands. I was so frightened. Then he pushed me into a chair and said, ‘Maybe later.’ ”

“Did you recognize his voice?” Jeannie asked.

“No.”

“Could it have been one of your customers?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t really be sure. He didn’t speak much. He said, ‘Maybe later,’ and then he told me to call McKenzie. He said I was to call him and tell him to come over to the house—that was about all.” Joley looked into my eyes. “He didn’t say anything about you or why he wanted you. After I called, he waited by the door. When you drove up, he went outside and started shooting. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“Did you search the house?” I said.

Jeannie grimaced as if I had insulted her, then let it go. “Tell me about the shooter,” she said.

“He was dressed like the men who kidnapped Bobby Dunston’s daughter,” I said. “He was dressed like the man who killed Scottie Thomforde.”

“He must really hate you.”

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“It worked in my favor. If he hated me just a little less, he might have waited until I rang the doorbell. I wouldn’t have had a chance.”

“You didn’t recognize him, Ms. Waddell?” Jeannie said. “You didn’t recognize his voice?”

“No.”

A question came from behind us. “Do you know Thomas Thomforde?” We spun toward it. Harry was standing just inside the doorway. He held his ID in front of him like a shield.

Jeannie shouted at her uniforms. “Can I get someone to secure the goddamned door? It’s a crime scene, for chrissake.”

Harry smiled at her. “Good afternoon, Detective Shipman,” he said.

Jeannie smiled back. “Good afternoon, Special Agent Wilson. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“There is an excellent chance that the case you are currently working is connected to a federal kidnapping case that I am working. I would be grateful, Detective Shipman, if you allowed me to sit in on your interview, perhaps share any evidence you might have uncovered.”

“May I ask who called you?”

“I did,” I said.

Jeannie gave me a look that could have melted asphalt. “Certainly, if McKenzie says it’s all right, I’ll be happy to cooperate with the FBI,” she said, although the tone of her voice suggested otherwise.

“You’re most kind, Detective Shipman,” Harry said.

“Think nothing of it, Special Agent Wilson.”

“Hmm.”

“Ahh.”

“What’s going on?” Joley said.

“Mating dance,” I said. Both Harry and Jeannie gave me a look. Forget melted asphalt. Think about what’s in a deep, dark hole beneath the asphalt.

“Do you know Thomas Thomforde?” Harry repeated.

“Tommy? Sure I do,” said Joley. “I knew him when we were kids. I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, though.”

“Was he the man who terrorized you?”

“No. Why are you asking about Tommy?”

Harry gestured with his head, and he, Jeannie, and I moved away from Joley. “Tommy Thomforde is missing,” he told us.

“Missing or hiding?” I said.

“We pulled our men off him to back up McKenzie when he delivered the ransom,” Harry told Jeannie. “No one has seen him since.”

“His mother?” I asked.

“She says she hasn’t seen Tommy since he left for work yesterday morning. Beyond that, she’s not being very cooperative.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Jeannie said. “One son dead.”

Harry smiled at her.

Jeannie smiled back.

I brushed past both of them and went to where Joley was sitting. I knelt in front of her chair and took her hands in mine. “Joley, listen to me very carefully. This is important.”

“What?”

“Was Scottie Thomforde really here the night before last, the night Karen Studder and I spoke to you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Joley pulled her hands out of mine. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said.

“He knew I was looking for him.”

“He was in the bedroom upstairs. He was listening. I’m sorry I lied, McKenzie. I didn’t know what else to do. Scottie and I… I didn’t want you to know that we were, that we were… I was embarrassed.” Maybe she could read my mind. Maybe the expression on my face told her that my brain was screaming at the contradiction, because she added, “The person I am on the phone isn’t the person I really am.”

Probably it was cruel; I said it anyway. “Considering what you do for a living, Joley, I doubt anyone would have cared.”

“I thought you might have cared.” pqdm.com