“Hold on, Mr. Shaw.”
But Shaw didn’t hold on. “Wiley had all the information he needed to realize this was an active kidnapping. He should’ve had twenty-five uniforms in and around San Miguel Park to search for Sophie Mulliner. And if he had, they would’ve found her—because I found her by myself in a half hour—and Kyle Butler’d be alive right now and, likely, you’d have your unsub in custody.”
“Mr. Shaw, the fact is you removed evidence from a crime scene. That’s an offense. The law is black-and-white on that.”
Cummings had helpfully walked right into Shaw’s trap.
Shaw leaned forward ever so slightly. “One, I took that rock to have a DNA test done, at my own expense, to prove that Sophie’d been kidnapped—because none of you believed it. Two”—Shaw held up a hand to silence Cummings’s impending sputter—“San Miguel Park wasn’t a crime scene. Dan Wiley never declared it one. I picked up a piece of granite in a county park. Now, Supervisor Cummings, I’m ending our conversation. You can discuss all this with your DA or I’ll call my attorney and she’ll take it from there.”
20.
Shaw opted for one of those packets of peanut butter crackers.
All the other snacks in the Joint Major Crimes Task Force lobby were of the sweet variety, other than some unpopped cheddar popcorn, though how a visitor might prepare it was a mystery, there being no microwave that he could see.
He bought a bottled water too. The coffee, he figured, would be undrinkable.
He’d just finished the delicacy when Cummings’s assistant, a sharp-eyed young man, entered the lobby through the submarine-quality security door and said that, unfortunately, Shaw’s car had been towed to the pound.
Shaw didn’t bother to ask why. So while he’d been released, his wheels were still in detention.
“I’m not being charged.”
“I know that, sir.”
“But I can’t get my car?”
“No, sir. Some evidence was found in the car. I need a detective to sign off on it.”
“Supervisor Cummings will.”
“Well, he’s gone home. We’re looking for a supervising detective who can authorize the release.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“There’s paperwork. Usually four, five hours.”
It was a rental; maybe he’d just leave it and get a new one. Then he decided there might be some penalty. He always bought the collision damage waiver option. On the other hand, rental contracts had a lot of fine print. There was possibly a provision that voided the protection if a customer intentionally abandoned the car at the police pound.
“We have your phone number. We’ll call when it’s ready to be released.”
“Do you know if the suspect has been identified?”
“Suspect?” The tone: Which one?
“The Sophie Mulliner abduction.”
“I wouldn’t know.” The assistant was swallowed up through the doomsday door, which clicked shut with reverberation.
Shaw looked out the front of the Task Force headquarters. Four news station vans were there. Reporters and camera operators jockeyed. Shaw had been cleared as a suspect in the heinous crime of putting evidence in a Walgreens bag and there would be no indictment or arraignment details in public records featuring his name. But he was a participant and had been spotted, surely, by a keen-eyed reporter or two at the crime scene. With his gunslinger kind of job and his resemblance to a movie star, even if a generic one, Colter Shaw could be media fodder.
He returned to the officer behind the bulletproof glass—not the one who’d made the copy for him—and said to her, “You have a side entrance here?”
She debated, eyeing the reporters outside and assuming he’d been booked for something and didn’t want his wife to see him on the eleven o’clock news. She pointed to a windowless door not far from the vending machines.
“Thanks.”
Shaw left via this side corridor. A flash of brilliant early-evening sunlight fired into his eyes as he stepped out. He walked up the street, passing bail bond storefronts and the small offices of hardscrabble lawyers. He was about to summon an Uber to hitch a ride to the Winnebago when he found a bar. Mexican-themed, which appealed to him.
A few minutes later a freezing can of Tecate was in his hand. He worked a lime wedge through the opening. He never squeezed the fruit juice in; Shaw thought a float in the can was enough.
A long swallow. Another, as he looked over the menu.
His phone hummed and he recognized the number. “Mr. Mulliner?”
“Make it Frank. Please.”
“Okay, Frank.”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Breathless.
“How’s Sophie?”
“She’s home. Really shaken up, you can imagine. The break’s bad. But the cast doesn’t cover her fingers, so she can still use a keyboard. And text her friends.” The laugh went quiet quickly. He would be deciding how to control the sudden urge to cry. “They checked her out at the hospital. Everything else is okay.”
A euphemism, “everything else.” There’d been no sexual assault, words a father would find so very difficult to utter.
“But . . . you? How are you?”
“Fine.”
“The police said somebody helped them find her. Sophie said you were the only one.”
“The cops played cavalry.”
“She said they took you away, they arrested you!”
“Not a worry. It got worked out. Is her mother coming?”
A pause. “She’ll be here in a couple of days. She had a meeting—a board meeting. She said it was important.” Which told Shaw all about the former Mrs. Mulliner. “Mr. . . . Colter, I owe you everything . . . I just can’t describe it. Well, you’ve probably heard that before.”
He had.
“But . . . Kyle.” Frank’s voice had lowered and Shaw supposed Sophie was nearby. “Jesus.”
“That was a shame.”
“Listen, Colter. I have your reward. I want to give it to you in person.”
“I’ll come over tomorrow. The police must’ve debriefed Sophie?”
“A detective was here, yes. Detective Standish.”
The elusive partner had surfaced—now that the case had proved to be real.
“Do they have any leads?”